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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, ! 

Ma/>.33HTe>--~ 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



7 \DmO WONk C*\J\i 






" If thou hast good eyes, and lookest 

In my songs, when thou hast tried them, 
Thou wilt see a fair young maiden 
Wandering up and down inside them." 

Bowring's Heine. 



Just Published, 

UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME, 

XjAUS VEKTBR.IS, 
And Other Poems. 

BY 

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 

C03 

Price §1.50. 



FRENCH 

Love Songs, 

AND OTHEE POEMS. 



FROM THE ORIGINALS OF 

BAUDELAIRE, A. DE MUSSET, LAMARTINE, V. HUGO, 

A. CHENIER, H. GAUTIER. BER ANGER, PAR NY, 

NADAUD, DUPONT, AND OTHERS. 



SELECTED AND TRANSLATED 
HARRY CURWEN. 



r Z9f \VASH\^5> 



NEW YORK: 

Carleton, Publisher, Madison Square. 



MDCCCLXXI. I <& *1 / , 



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I HAVE LITTLE NEED TO WRITE YOU A DEDICATORY SONG. 
EVERY POEM IN THIS SMALL VOLUME IS A POEM TO 
YOU ; AND, ALTHOUGH NOTHING BUT THE 
RIBBON ROUND THE GARLAND IS MINE, 
THE THOUGHTS ARE THE CHOI- 
CEST I COULD BORROW, 
THE WORDS THE 
MEETEST I 
COULD 
GIVE. 



CONTENTS. 

ANON. 

PAGE 

VI. Colinette 26 

CHARLES BAUDELAIRE. 

VIII. Wine 30 

XIV. Hymn to Beauty 50 

XXI. Like a Serpent Dancing 65 

XXXVI. All in All 107 

XLV. The Water-Jet 135 

LII. An Afternoon Song 158 

LIV. Cain and Abel 163 

LV. A Sad Madrigal 164 

LVI. Death 165 

P. J. DE BERANGER. 

LXIII. Springtime and Autumn * 175 

LXIV. How Fair She is . 177 

LXV. The Old Flag 178 

--LXVI. The Bacchante ,180 

LXVII. The Gray-Hair 5 d Dame 182 

LXVIII. Old Age 184 



ANDRE CHENIER. 

II. Mnazilus and Chloe 16 

XLIV. An Idyll . . . -. -. ". . . .130 
LIII. Camiile . 160 



(vii) 



vin CONTENTS. 



DEGUERLE. 

PAGE 

XXX. The Art of Pleasing 88 



DE LA VIGNE. 

XXII. The Tryst 6 7 

XXXVIII. The Oaths 109 



DUFRESNY. 

X. The Morrows 39 

PIERRE DUPONT. 

IX. The Weeping Willow 37 

XXVII. A Village Maiden's Song 82 

XXXIII. Barcarole . 103 

XL. Under the Lindens 112 

XLVI. A Serenade 137 

THEOPHILE GAUTIER. 

LVII. To Jessy 168 

LVIII. Solitude ' 169 

LIX. Sultan Mahmoud 170 

LX. Serenade 172 

LXI. To the Butterflies 173 

LXII. The Spectre of the Rose 174 

EMILE DE GIRARDIN. 

XVIII. For Ever 58 

XLI. Of Whom is He Thinking? , . . 113 



CONTENTS. ix 

VICTOR HUGO. 

PAGE 

III. My Little Neighbor ....... 18 

IV. Truth 19 

XVII. Sunset 57 

XXVI. New Song to an Old Air . . . . ~~ . . 81 

XXXII. In the Church of * * * 92 

XXXVII. To a Lady 108 

XLVIII. All— All is Love 140 

XLIX. A Morning Serenade 142 

ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE. 

I. Almond Blossoms 15 

XV. The Gulf of Baya 51 

XXIII. A Love Song 68 

XXIX. Wisdom 85 

XXXIV. The Butterfly 104 

XLII. To Elvira 115 

LAUCUSSADE. 

LI. The Roses of Forgetfulness 156 

ALFRED DE MUSSET. 

VII. To a Flower . 28 

XIII. To Fanny 48 

XIX. Venice 60 

XXVIII. Farewell . 84 

XXXV. My Spanish Girl . 105 

XXXIX. The Marquesa d'Amaegui no 

L. An Autumn Eve 143 

GUSTAVE NADAUD. 

V. Glycera's Complaint ....... 25 

XI. Dreams of Youth . . . . . . . . 4° 



X CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

XX. The Song of. Thirty Years 63 

XXV. Sleeplessness 79 

XXXI. Ursula 90 

- XLVII. Love's Delight 139 

PARNY. 

XII. The Pictures 42 

XXIV. On the Death of a Young Girl 78 

XLIII. Elegies 116 

SAINTE-BEUVE. 

LXIX. Roundelay . . . 185 

LXX. "Oh, Take Away" 186 

LXXI. First Love 187 

SEGUR. 

XVI. Remember Me 56 

LXXII. L'Envoi to Fanny 190 




INTRODUCTION. 

The superficial knowledge which, as a rule, 
Englishmen possess of the French language, 
preventing them, at once, from being satisfied 
with a translation, or from thoroughly enjoy- 
ing the original, is perhaps the reason why 
modern French poetry has been so little stud- 
ied in England, and has exerted so small an 
influence upon our literature. We know, in- 
deed, more of the poets of Greece and Rome, 
more even of the poets of Germany and Spain 
— because we know less of their language — 
than we do of the wonderful school that 
sprang Phoenix -like from the ashes of the 
First Republic. A time when men's brains 
were whirling with the rapidity of new ideas 

(xi) 



Xii INTRODUCTION. 

— a time of massacres and battle-shouts, and 
exultations, and sorrows — of debauchery hid- 
eous in its throughness, and of hopes unutter- 
ably eager — when the old world had fallen 
utterly, and the new world was still a chaos, 
could not but give us a mighty race of master 
singers. From this school, endowed as it was 
with all the age's eager frenzy, its startling 
newness, its mad enjoyments of the moment, 
and its passionate yearnings for the future, the 
poems contained in this volume, with the ex- 
ception of a few isolated pieces, have been 
selected. 

It would here be impossible to give even the 
briefest summary of Modern French Poetry — 
the book and not the introduction must do 
this — but the writer believes that to a multi- 
tude of English readers the poems, among 
others, of Alfred de Musset, Andre Chenier, 
V. Hugo, Gautier, Nadaud, Parny, and above 



INTRODUCTION, xm 

all, of Charles Baudelaire, will have at least 
the charm of novelty. 

Whatever seemed at once most characteris- 
tic of the author, and most fitly adapted to 
the translator's own capacity, has been chosen. 
Each piece is given in its entirety, the writer 
considering himself in no case to be justified 
in "Bowdlerizing" or altering the original; 
and if blame or censure should be attached to 
him for the occasional warmth and passion of 
the poems — and, with the exception of Charles 
Baudelaire, French poetry is nothing if not 
erotic — he can console himself with the thought 
that with the reverend and approved translat- 
ors of Catullus and Tibullus, Sapho and Ana- 
creon, he is at all events in goodly company. 

The one broad rule the writer has endea- 
vored to obey — a rule on which he believes 
the success of all translation depends — has 
been to make each piece, before all else, a 



XIV INTRODUCTION. 

Saxon-English poem ; and feeling, from ex- 
perience, that collections like this generally 
suffer from their sameness, the only order he 
has attempted in the arrangement has been 
an order of variety. 



ii Gray's Inn Square, 
May, 1870. 





THE FRENCH POETS. 



ALMOND BLOSSOMS. 

(lamartine.) 

The almond blossoms on this tree 

As emblems of thy charms "were made ; 

The flowers of life, my sweet, like thee ; 
Yet ere the summer's gone they fade. 

E'en let us pluck them as we will 
In Love's soft hands they die away, 

And, leaf by leaf, they perish still, 
Like our short pleasures, day by day. 



So let us take them in their prime, 
Dispute them from the zephyr's breath, 

Enjoy the fragrance while we've time 
Of perfume soon to fade in death ; 

(15) 



16 MNAZILUS AND CHLOE. 

For beauty often, as it flies, 

Is like some rosy morning flower, 

Which withers in the wreath, and dies 
A while before the festal hour. 

Each day must die when once 'tis bom, 
Each spring-time blushing fresh and coy, 

Yet each flower on the lap of mom 
But bids us hasten to enjoy. 

And so, since all we love and cherish 
Must fade when most we feel its bliss, 

Let, let the glowing roses perish, 

But only 'neath Love's lingering kiss. 



n. 

MNAZILUS AND CHLOE. 

(andre chenier.) 

CHLOE. 

O flower-strewn borders ! O tall reeds blowing 
In rhythmic tunc to the water flowing ! 
Oh tell me, is Mnazilus near your glades ? 
Often he comes to your peaceful shades, 
And often I wish the trembling air 
Would bring me a message that he is there. 



MNAZILUS AND CHLOE. 17 

MXAZILTJS. 

O stream ! the mother of flowers, you hold 
This scented dell in your girdling fold ; 
Why do you not bring to your winding thrall 
Chloe, the daintiest flower of all ? 

CHLOE. 

If he but knew that I came to dream 
Of love, and of him beside the stream ! 
Oh if a glance or a tender smile 
Could make him tarry a little while — 

MNAZILUS. 

. Oh if some kind god would breathe a word 
Of the thoughts with which my heart is stirr d, 
Then dare I pray her, when she was near me, 
To let me love her, at least to hear me ! 

CHLOE. 

O joy, 'tis he ! — he speaks — I tremble — 
Be quiet, O lips ! O eyes, dissemble ! 

]\IXAZILUS. 

The foliage rustled — methought I heard — 
'Tis she ! O eyes, say never a word ! 

CHLOE. 

What, Mnazilus here ? how strange to meet 
With you in this lonely green retreat ! 

2 



18 MY LITTLE NEIGHBOR 

m:n t azilus. 

Alone I lay in the shady grass 
And never expected a soul to pass. 



in. 
MY LITTLE NEIGHBOR. 

(VICTOR HUGO.) 

If you nothing have to say, 
Why so often come this way ? 
Rosy mouth and blue eyes smiling, 
Stronger heads than mine beguiling 
From their study and their labor ; 
Tell me, charming little neighbor, 
If you nothing have to say, 
Why so often come this way ? 

If you nothing have to teach, 
Why not practise as you preach ? 
Little hands so softly pressing, 
Teasing half, and half caressing, 
Saucy mouth, and sparkling eye, 
Needs must have a reason why ; 
If you nothing have to teach 
Why not practise as you preach ? 



TRUTH. 19 

If you say I have not won you, 

Why not, sweet one, let me shun you ? 

Now my books aside are thrown, 

You I read, and you alone ; 

If you ever are denying, 

Why then hinder rne from flying ? 

If you say I have not won you, 

Why not, sweet one, let me shun you? 



IY. 
TRUTH. 

(V. HUGO.) 
I. 

The merry morn is waking 

In all its rosy light, 
While fogs and dreams are taking 

Flight, with the drowsy night ; 
Soft eyelashes and roses 

Open with hope new-born, 
And everything discloses 

The happy touch of morn. 

And everything is singing 
A morning hymn to love, 

Flowers and tendrils springing 
To greet the trees above ; 



20 TRUTH. 

The streams speak to the fountains, 
The breezes to the pines, 

The clouds unto the mountains, 
The grapes unto the vines. 

One throbbing pulse is shaking 

All Nature's mighty frame, — 
The child its toys retaking, 

The ember 1 d grate its flame ; 
Love, and folly, and madness, 

Petty aims, and grand, 
And fame, and hope, and gladness - 

To each one what he plann'd. 

Still, whether loving or sighing, 

In the bridal garb or pall, 
We're only drifting, flying 

To the final goal of all : 
We all seek what is ours, — 

A lad the joys of youth, 
A bee the daintiest flowers, 

Whilst I am seeking truth ! 



ii. 

O Truth ! with deep devotion 
I've plunged in depths profound, 

And sought thee in the ocean 
Where'er the plummets sound ; 



TRUTH. 21 

Tho 1 fogs and mists may bind thee, 
And shoals and sand-banks mock, 

We're sure at last to find thee, 
As firm, as hard as rock ! 

O Truth ! broad-breasted river 

Which never can be dry, 
Where all may bathe for ever, 

And swim, or sink and die ; 
A lamp the great God places 

Near all our mortal things, 
A light that always graces 

The thoughts a pure mind brings ! 

A gnarled tree in flower, 

"Where strength and beauty blend, 
Which each man, to his power, 

Shall either break or bend ; 
'Mid wide-spread branches flinging 

Their shade, when day has sunk, 
Some to the branches clinging, 

And others to the trunk. 

A hill from which all fioweth, 

A path which all have trod, 
A gulf to which all goeth — 

The handiwork of God ! 



22 TRUTH. 

A star we're still blaspheming, 
Altho', on nearer view, 

After wild doubts and dreaming, 
We'll know its ray was true. 



in. 

Earth ! lit up with splendor 

At sunset and sunrise, 
With gorgeous hues yet tender 

To suit our mortal eyes ! 
Shores where waves are dying ! 

Woods where soft winds play ! 
O vast horizon ! lying 

Round all things far away, 

glorious azure veiling 
The gulf, till all is still ; 

Where idly floating, sailing 
Where'er the breezes will, 

1 'mid the reeds conceal me, 

And list with all my soul 
To what the waves reveal me 
In their majestic roll ! 

O glorious azure smiling 
On all, from skies above, 

Each wearied soul beguiling 

To dreams and thoughts of love ; 



TRUTH. 

And, while we're dreaming, seeking 

To read the mystic spell, 
That murmuring winds are speaking, 

That starry pages tell. 

O mighty ocean wreathing, 

And girdling all the earth ! 
Stars which the Master's breathing 

Call'd to their fiery birth ! 
Flowers whose hidden meaning 

We crush beneath our feet, 
Tho' God, perchance, is gleaning 

Honey from every sweet ! 

O valleys rich in May-time ! 

O woodland shades and plains ! 
Where village towers in play-time 

Ring out their merry strains ; 
Hillocks and mountains bearing 

The vast skies on your breasts ! 
Bright stars a gay smile wearing 

Amid your gloomy nests ! — 

You are but one book's pages 
Where all may read and learn : 

Where poets and where sages 
May see what most they yearn : 

Yet every thought unfurl' d there 
Requires a mystic rod, 



24 TRUTH. 

Tho' some eyes see a world there, 
And some souls find a God. 

A Book which is completed 
By virtuous deeds alone ; 

Where youthful dreams are greeted 
By feelings still unknown ; 

Where those whom age has smitten 
With wrinkled brows yet vast, 

Have in the margin written 
' ' Behold us come at last ! n 

A holy book concealing 

All deeds which God has done ; 
A thousand names revealing 

And yet revealing one — 
A name that always leavens 

Whate'er we hold of worth, 
But one name in the heavens, 

But one name on the earth. 

A sure book, never failing, 

For all may drink its balm, 
Tho' midnight seers are paling 

Before they find its charm ; 
Pythagoras nearly guess 1 d it, 

And Moses knew it well, 
And all have loved and bless' d it, 

When once they learn' d the spell. 



GLYC ERA'S COMPLAINT, 25 

V. 

GLYCERA'S COMPLAINT. 
(nadaud.) 

Once Horace, buried deep in thought, 

Was dreaming all a poet's fancies, 
While poor Glycera vainly sought 

To lure him with her softest glances ; 

Reading his face with eager eyes, 
Long time unto his knees she clung, 

Then, stifling her unbidden sighs, 

She seized upon her lyre, and sung — 

" What was it, Horace, made you choose me 
To be the theme of glowing pages, 

Till in the song itself you lose me, 
And leave me there for coming ages ? 

* ' Ah ! how can I but help to know it ? 

When all your inmost thoughts discover, 
It was not Love who made you poet, 

But 'twas the Muse who made you lover. 

" For 'tis but she who can inspire 
The songs in which you love me best, 

When my name trembles on your lyre, 
Then hers is thrilling in your breast. 



26 COLINETTE. 

" And, Horace, if I bade you throw 
The songs you make me far away, 

And take my love instead, I know 
How scornfully you'd answer 'Nay.' 

1 ' Poet ! you reckon fame above 

These short-lived ties, these friendships sweet, 
Unmindful that with passionate love 

Tm wasting, dying at your feet." 

And Horace, sleeping half, half waking, 
All heedless of the mournful strain, 

Was idle songs to Lydia making, 
While poor Glycera wept in vain. 



VI. 

COLINETTE. 

(anon.) 

The sweet scents the violets fling 
Tell me of the belle and pride 
Of the happy country side 
Where I pass'd my boyhood's spring : 
I, a schoolboy when we met, 
She, a little country maid ; 
Now beneath the grass she's laid — 
Poor Colinette! 



COLINETTE. 27 

Playing hide-seek, where the trees 

Spread their green athwart the sky, 

She was breathless quite, and I 
Joyous as a summer's breeze. 
Ne'er a time to fume and fret, 

Now, alas ! each turtle dove 

Murmurs 'mid its tale of love 
"Poor Colinette!" 

On this bank, in this sweet spot, 

Was our parting interview, 

Closer still our lips we drew, 
Loving, tho' we knew it not ; 
Hiding still my fond regret, 

As I kiss'd away a tear, 

' ' Fare-thee-well until next year 
Poor Colinette ! " 

Such a tale is very old, 

Yet we greet it with a sigh, 

And, I think, the sternest eye 
Will grow moist er when 'tis told. 
Altho' many a gay coquette, 

Poet-like, I've called my flame, 

On my heart you'll find her name — 
"Poor Colinette!" 



28 TO A FLOWER. 

VII. 
TO A FLOWER. 

(alf. de musset.) 

What do you wish, sweet floweret, 

Charming little souvenir 
Dying half, and half coquette, 

Tell rne what has brought you here ? 

In this envelope reposing, 
You have come a weary way ; 

When a hand your seal was closing, 
Had this sweet hand naught to say ? 

Are you but a wither* d rose 
On the very point of death ? 

Or does your sweet bosom close 
Over one thought-laden breath ? 

From your pure white buds Fd guess 
Innocence and girlish years; 

But your happy leaves confess 

Hope, tho 1 mix'd, perchance, with tears. 

Prithee, sweet flower, breathe a hint 
Of your secret, and my doom ; 

Is there no meaning in your tint ? 
Nothing in your rich perfume ? 



TO A FLO WEE. 29 

If there is, then whisper low, 

Sweet mysterious little guest ; 
If there is not, say not, "No," 

But sleep silent on my breast. 

Ah, too well I know that hand, 

Full of grace and girlish glee, 
As it bound this silken band, 

Ere it sent you forth to me. 

White it is, yet warm they say, 
When the tapering ringers twine ; 

Would that Love could find a way 
To make such a treasure mine ! 

But its owner's very sage, 

And I know not how she'd deem it ! 
Sweet flower, let us dread her rage, 

Tell me nothing, — let me dream it ! 



30 WINE. 

VIII. 
WINE. 

(CHARLES BAUDELAIRE.) 

I. 

The Sou! of Wine. 

In a flagon weird and olden 

Sang the Soul of Wine one night, 
' ' Mortal, for the love I bear thee — 

Cheated out of every right — 
Buried in my crystal prison, 

And this vermeil seal of mine, 
I bring merry songs of gladness, 

And of brotherhood divine. 

" I can see, O weary mortal ! 

When the hillside is ablaze 
In the fierce sun, with what anguish - 

With what long laborious days, 
Ye have tended, reared me duly, 

Tended me, until ye find 
That the soul once ripen'd in me 

Proves not ingrate nor unkind. 

' ' For I feel a mighty thrilling 
Of deep pleasure, when I fall 

Down the gullet of a workman, 
Wearied with his daily thrall ; 



WINE. 31 

For his warm breast is an haven, 

And a tomb where I can sleep 
Far more softly, more contented, 

Than in caverns icy deep. 

" Dost thou hear the feast-day's laughter? 

And the feast-day's chorus 1 d songs ? 
And the hope that stirs my bosom 

With the mighty joy it longs ? 
With thine elbows on the table, 

And thy gnaiTd arms bare and free, 
Thou shalt be content and merry, 

And speak glorious things of me. 

" I will light a loving passion 

In the worn eyes of thy wife ; 
I will change thy sick son's pallor 

To the healthy hue of life ; 
I will lit him for the battle, 

I will be to him the oil 
That the wrestlers use when struggling, 

When their limbs are faint with toil. 

" I will fall upon ye gently, 

Drop upon ye o'er and o'er, 
Sweet scatter' d grains of poesy 

Sown by the eternal Sower ! 



32 WINE. 

Till I deck your fancied promise 
With the wealth of all rny dowers, 

And ye spring up toward the heavens, 
Like the rarest, sweetest flowers ! " 



ii. 
The Scavenger's Bottle. 

Many a time by some reflected lamp, 

Whose flickering flame is tortured by the wind, 

Afar in some deep alley — loathsome, damp 
With its fermenting mass of human kind — 

We see a scavenger go staggering by, 
Clutching at nothing as a poet might, 

Careless of all the crowd's cruel mockery, 

Pour out his heart in dreams and projects bright ; 

Breathe solemn vows, and dictate laws supreme, 
Endow the pauper, shelter the opprcst, 

Then glow with all the regal powers that seem 
To have their very centre in his breast. 

Struggling with woes unutterably deep, 

Shivering with famine, and with age worn down, 

Reeling and tottering 'neath the mighty heap 
Of all the outcast refuse of the town. 



WINE. 33 

These very people, smelling of the lees 

Of wine butts, pass again with comrades gray 

With battles fought on distant lands and seas, — 
Flags and triumphal arches o'er their way 

Unfold before them, magic splendors rise, 
And with the sunbeams dazzling from above, 

With drums and braying clarions and loud cries, 
They bring back glory to a people drunk with love. 

Changing Pactolus-like its banks to gold, 
Wine rolls across Humanity's drear plain, 

Singing, thro' mortal throats, its exploits bold, 
And reigning by its gifts, as monarchs reign. 

To lull the pain — to still the rancor deep 
Of these old wretches who in silence fall, 

God half-remorseful had created sleep, 
Man added wine, the sweetest gift of all ! 



in. 
The Murderer's Draught. 

My wife is dead, and I am free 
To soak me to my soul's content ; 

Ah, how her cries have shatter' d me 
When reeling home without a cent ! 



3 



34 WINE, 

Now I'm as happy as a king, 
The air is fresh, the sun ablaze, 

There's something in this balmy spring 
That tells me of our courting days. 

And yet this burning thirst of mine 
Would almost take as much to still it 

As e'en her tomb would hold of wine, 
And that were no slight task to till it : 

For I have thrown her down — deep, deep 
Into a well, and then I hurled 

The stones and coping in a heap, 
To shut her in from all the world. 

For by the thought of that old time, 
Of which e'en age could not beguile us, 

And just as in our pas'nate prime, 
And now, as then, to reconcile us, 

I pray'd her for a loving tryst 

At midnight, on the well's dark brink, 

She came — the trusting fool — by Christ ! 
We're all fools, more or less, I think ! 

She had some trace of beauty yet, 
Tho' overwork'd perchance, and I — 

I loved her with a mad regret, 

And so I bade a long "good-bye " 1 



WINE. 35 

None comprehend me — I alone 

Of all this sottish set of mine 
Have ever thought — 'twas all my own — 

To make a winding sheet of wine. 

This craving and yearning for drink 
Left me never a time for love, — 

'Twas love against wine on the brink, 
And I settled my choice with a shove ! — 

Wine with its black infernal joys, 

And its horrible train of fears, 
Its chains with awful clinking noise, 

Its vials of passion and tears ! — 

Now quite alone, and free at last, 
I'll pledge her, in my hideous mirth, 

And, heedless of the cruel past, 
111 fling me down upon the earth : 

I will sleep as a dog might sleep 

Id the slimy filth, and the mud, 
Till the great wagon wheels plunged deep 

"With a lazy jolt, and a thud 

Will batter my head like a clod, 
And crush in my body — Ah, well ! 

I can laugh at it just as God 

Can laugh at the Devils and Hell ! 



36 WINE. 

IV. 
The Solitary's Flagon. 

A tell-tale glance from deep passionate eyes, 

Which glides toward us, as the white rays glide 
From the lazy moon to the trembling tide, 

Where in naked splendor her beauty lies ; 

The last purse of gold in a gambler's fingers ; 

A libertine kiss from your lips, my dear ; 

The sound of music, as thrilling and clear 
As a cry, where mortal misery lingers ; — 

All these are not worth, O Flagon profound ! 
The healing balms which you scatter around ; — 
You bring to the Poet — heart-sick, down-trod — 
Gushings of hopeful youth, and pride, ay pride — 

A treasure to those who have naught beside ! 
To make us heroes ! — liken us to God ! 



v. 
The Lover's Wine Cud. 

There's a charm to-day in the boundless air, 
As if on a steed, unsaddled and bare, 
We'll ride on a beaker of rosy wine 
Thro' the fairy land of a sky divine. 



THE WEEPING WILLOW. 37 

And just as two angels might watch below 
This horrible fever of grief and woe, 
We'll follow the mirage illumed afar 
By the rising sun, and the morning star ; 

And gently balanced upon the w 7 ings 
Of the whirlwind fierce, and the howling blast, 
And freed from the trammels of earthly things, 
Well fly away both of us fast — fast — fast ! 

And find in the sky, where the morning gleams, 
The haven and heaven of all our dreams ! 



IX. 

THE WEEPING WILLOW. 

(dupont.) 

Bexeath a weeping w T illow, 

Rich with its buds in flower, 

A violet bed her pillow, 

The drooping leaves her bower, 

Darling ! she was lulled to sleep, 

By the murmur of the deep. 

Her gentle body presses 
With a thousand tendernesses 
Upon the violet bed ; 



38 THE WEEPING WILLOW. 

The jealous branches tremble, 
With a love they can't dissemble, 
In deep fringe overhead. 

And now, as she reposes, 
The tinge of summer roses 

Glows deeper on her cheek — 
'Mid her rich tresses straying 
The careless winds are playing 

At merry hide and seek. 

The loving waves have caught her 
Soft image in the water, 

With many a tender thrill ; 
So I, when we are parted, 
Tho 1 weary, broken-hearted, 

Shall see her image still. 

Her balmy breast is heaving, 
And some sweet dream a-weaving 

Round her its potent charms ; 
Will she lye much affrighted, 
At waking, half benighted, 

In her own lover's arms ? 

Half waking and half sleeping, 
From silken lashes peeping, 
Her soft eyes on me beam ; 



THE MORROWS. 39 

And then I draw her to nie, 
Each sweet touch thrilling thro' me, — 
"Dear one, what was your dream ? " 

Soft cheeks and white neck flushing, 
Half smiling, and half blushing, — 

' ' I dreamt, my own, of you, 
1 ' That I slept beneath a willow 
1 1 With your fond breast for my pillow, 

"And, Sweet, my dream is true ! " 



X. 

THE MORROWS. 

(dufresny.) 

Phyllis, greedier far than kind, 
When Sylvander pray'd for this, 

Required of her faithful hind 
Thirty sheep for one short kiss. 

The morrow, and the shepherd thought 
Phyllis kind — the bargain cheap, 

For from the shepherdess he bought 
Thirty kisses for one sheep. 

The morrow, Phyllis, far more tender, 
Trembling she would lose the bliss. 



40 DREAMS OF YOUTH. 

Was very happy to surrender 
Thirty sheep for one short kiss. 

The morrow, Phyllis, nearly mad, 
Found her flock a bribe too small 

To buy the kiss the fickle lad 
Gave Lissette for naught at all. 



XL 

DREAMS OF YOUTH. 

(nadaud.) 

I still remember when a child 

What castles I built in the air, 
What realms I traversed, lorn and wild, 

And all the marvels I found there, 
Things wonderful, and how uncouth, 

Yet rosy with the touch of morn ; 
Where are the dazzling dreams of youth 

And the old house where I was born ? 

To wander on — the world is round — 
O'er rugged mountain peaks to climb, 

To conquer storm-girt seas prof ound, — 
This was a dream perhaps too sublime ! 

Still Athens would I see, till sooth 
Sad Fortune bid my projects cease ; 



DREAMS OF YOUTH. 41 

Where are the dazzling dreams of youth, 
And where the marbled fanes of Greece ? 

I had read of love in a book, 

And I said that I too would love, 
Till I fasten 1 d my soul on a look, 

Like the stars on the suns above, 
Till loving I found to my ruth 

It were better my heart were sear ; 
Where are the dazzling dreams of youth ? 

And where the roses of last year ? 

And then with nobler thoughts and proud, 

I could foresee my riper age 
Treading upon this miraged cloud, 

With a slow, steady step, and sage, — 
Foresee my wisdom — mine forsooth ! 

Teaching my stubborn heart to bow ; 
Where are the dazzling dreams of youth, 

And where are all Christ's precepts now ? 

Now autumn's here, farewell to spring ! 

Yet hope has still a lingering ray, 
So let us take all Fate can bring, 

Unmindful what he tears away ; 
And tho' his promise has no truth, 

Let him deceive us to the last, 
Farewell ye dazzling dreams of youth ! 

Farew T ell ye bright lies of the past ! 



42 THE PICTURES. 

XII. 
THE PICTURES. 

(PARNY.) 
I. 
The Rose. 
'Tis the golden age of youth 

Maidenhood with childhood greeting, 
Candor cloth' d with purest truth, 
Beauty in her brightest mien, — 
More than this it is Justine ; 
Yet her foolish heart is beating 
At Love's whispers, and believing 
Honeyed vows too oft deceiving ; 
While her half - veil' d eyes repose 
On the lover at her feet, 
Who, with suppliant air and sweet, 
Offers her a simple rose ; 
But Justine must still refuse 
What her heart would fondly choose ; — 
When a lover gives he'll crave 
Far more than he ever gave. 



IT. 
The Hand. 

When we love we soon forget 
All the prudish wary schemes 

Wise and foolish ever set 

To oppose a lover's dreams. 



THE PICTURES. 43 

We do not say, resistance will 
Bind desires and fire them still ; 
Or, that loving we may borrow 
Happy days from years of sorrow. — 

Thus a fancied love would reason, 
Thus a false coquette would speak, — 
With a loving girl 'twere treason 

If she were not kindly weak ; 
Glowing with the happiness 

Of the love that thrills her thro', 
She would never dare to guess 

Lovers' vows could prove untrue. 
Justine has received the rose, 

And her lips are all a-tremble 
With thoughts, she dare not quite disclose, 

And cannot quite dissemble ; 
While a little hand, half coldly 
Shuns a kiss to meet it boldly, 
Caressing as it is carest — 
Perhaps a promise of the rest. 



in. 
The Dream. 

With the dews from poppies shaken 
Sleep has closed her languid eyes, 

Closed them till her heart awaken 
To the meaning of her sio\hs ; 



44 THE PICTURES. 

Till the flush upon her cheeks 

Deepens to a rosy red, 
As her small hand vaguely seeks 

For some one in the downy bed ; 
And her beating, throbbing breast 

Heaves aside the useless veil ; 
Till a sense of languid rest 

Steals o'er cheeks and eyelids pale, 
And her coy half- opened mouth 

Breathes a murmuring incompleteness, 
Like the zephyr in the south, 

Sighing in his very sweetness 
As from flower to flower he flies, 

With their pilfer' d perfumes laden — 
So are all the murmur' d sighs 

Of a loving, timid maiden, 
When the hot lips of her lover 

Come in dreams unsought, unbidden, 
And with burning kisses cover 

Charms till then for ever hidden ; 
Till she in her fond arms press him, 
Shun his touch and then caress him. 

How happy Justine's slumber seems, 
When fiird with all these glowing dreams ! 
But happier far the man whose kisses 
Are dreamt of in a dream like this is ! 

[IV. and VI. omitted.] 



THE PICTURES. 45 

v. 
The Kiss. 

Ah, Justine ! what have you done ? 

All this ecstasy of bliss, 
All this throbbing passion won 

From one single kiss ! 
Lingering kisses never cloy 

On the loving lips we press, 
But, perhaps, the foretaste e'en of joy 

Is love's greatest happiness ; 
And e'en the remembrance, Sweet, 

Of this first kiss, always will 
Make your bosom flush and beat, 

Till your heart be cold and still. 
Now your lover scarce believes 

That 'tis his love inspires you : 
Better to give than to receive, 

So he joys in the love that fires you. 



vn. 
The Morrow. 



"With a languid dreamy air 
Justine works with fancied care ; 
Happiness has left its trace 
In her pale bewilder'd face ; 



46 THE PICTURES. 

Fain her wearied half -veil' d eyes 
Would resist sleep's sweet surprise, 
As with nervous, trembling fingers 
O'er her canvas work she lingers, 
Till she rests her throbbing head 
On her 'broidery frame instead ; — 
Her voice less firm, but oh how sweet ! 
Her clasping hands, her trembling feet, 
Her full red lips still softly parted, 
Her glance as if her soul were started, 
All tell the secret tale aright 
Of the happy fatal night. 



vin. 
Infidelity. 

In a sylvan green retreat 

A girl is bending, half in shame, 
While the gallant at her feet 

Is vowing his eternal flame ; 
'Tis Valsin. To the shady cover 

Poor happy, credulous Justine 
Comes thinking, dreaming of her lover. 

'Twould take a painter's brush, I ween, 
To limn the sad bewilder' d scene ! 



THE PICTURES. 47 

IX. 

Regrets. 

Justine is alone, and sighing 

And I follow where she goes, 
To her secret chamber flying — 

Scene of all her bitter woes ; 
For a while her stifled grief 
Is very still, then finds relief 

In a fit of passionate sobbing ; 
And her tears, too long represt, 
Fall in torrents on her breast, 

Heaving, beating, panting, throbbing, 
Like the stormy waves of ocean 
Lovely in its wild emotion : 
Still with Valsin's kisses binning, 
For his presence madly yearning ; 
Kneeling with her wearied head 
Hiding in the snow-white bed, 
From the garish snn above, 
Sighing, sobbing, ' ' Is this love ? " 



x. 
The Return. 

Faithless tho' her lover were, 
He was constant all the time ; 

Justine, sweet as she is fair, 

Has pardon' d him the moment's crime : 



48 TO FANNY. 

Breathing many an ardent vow 
In his arms he holds her now, 
To his kisses she replies 
By her silence and her sighs, 
Smiling at that passion still 
Lets that passion have its will. 
Yet the joy is his alone, 
And love's pleasure all his own ; 
For her love, once thrilling madness, 
Now is Sorrow's crown of sadness ; — 
Tho 1 the words are never spoken, 
Yon may hear it in her sighs, 
You may read it in her eyes, 
That the charm — the charm is broken ! 



xin. 

TO FANNY. 
(alf. de musset.) 

After your mother's last ' ' good-night," 
And her last kiss upon the stair, 

And when beneath the nickering light 
You bow your giddy head in prayer ; 



TO FANNY. 49 

When all is silent in the town, 

And every thought of care has fled, 

When you let your tresses down, 

And peer in fright beneath your bed ; 

When teeming brains have ceased to whirl, 
And e'en maternal eyes are winking, 

I wonder, Fan, my darling girl, 

I wonder what on earth you're thinking ! 

Who knows ? perhaps of wond'rous bonnets, 

Just suited to your saucy head, 
Of novels, cookery books, and sonnets, 

Of torments and your brother Ted ; 

Perhaps of the mountains over there, 

Whose rugged brows are strangely steepled, 

And perhaps of " Castles in the air," 
With lovers and with bon-bons peopled, 

Perhaps of the thrilling real romance 

That Annie whisper' d over tea, 
Perhaps of your last new song or dance, 

Of nothing perhaps — and perhaps of me. 

4 






50 HYMN TO BEAUTY. 

XIV. 
HYMN TO BEAUTY. 

(BAUDELAIRE.) 

Whence earnest thou, O Beauty? whence — ah, who 

can tell ? 
From the deep blue heavens, or from the depths of 

hell? 
With thy pas'nate glances — infernal and divine, 
Mingling good and evil, like the juice of potent wine ? 

Thy deep eyes can tell us of sunset and sunrise 
And thy sweets are scatter 1 d like scents in sultry skies ; 
Thy kisses are a filter, thy lips a power untold, 
To make the heroes cowards, and trembling children 
bold. 

Cam'st thou from the stars, or from the black abyss ? 
That we should fawn like dogs, and whine for a touch 

— a kiss ; 
Governing all the world, and answerable for naught, 
Sowing joy in a hope and anguish in a thought. 

With cruel smiling scorn thou tramplest on the dead — 
Horror is but a gem to grace thy haughty head, 
And Murder but a gaud — a chain wherewith to deck 
In many an amorous fold thy pitiless breasts and neck. 



THE GULF OF BAY A. 51 

Fluttering moth-like round theo in pas'nate haste we 

yearn 
To reach thy dazzling splendor, and bless thee as we 

bum — 
Panting with joy the lover in his sweet bridal room, 
, Seems like one death-stricken, caressing and kissing his 

tomb. 

Whether from God or Satan, why should mortals care, 
Beauty wildly lovely, wantonly, weirdly fair ! 
If with thine eyes, thy smiles thou openest unto me 
The awf ul unknown portals of vast infinity ! 

Whether Angel or Siren, from hell or from the skies, 
What matter? If thou givest, Sweet with the velvet 

eyes, 
Rhythme, perfume, light to wile us from our woe, 
To make the world less hideous, the dreary hours less 

slow! 

XV. 
THE GULF OF BAYA. 

(lamartine.) 

Mark you how the peaceful wave 
Gently dies upon the shore ! — 
Breezes sweet with pilfer' d store 

Fan, and dip, and splash and lave 
The laughing waters evermore ! 



52 THE G ULF OF BA YA. 

Sit we in this faery skiff, 
Lazily adown we'll row 

Round the Gulf and past the cliff, 

"Winding with the river's flow. 

Now far behind us glides the river, 

And on we go as if for ever ; 

And brushing o'er the creamy foam 

With trembling hands our oars we ply 
While in the distance seems to die 

The silvery track that tells of home. 

What freshness in a dying day ! 

Plunged into Thetis' bosom white 
The Sun has yielded up his sway 

To the pale Queen of Night. 
The bosoms of the half -closed flowers 
Open, to give their choicest dowers 
Of love, to Zephyrs balmy kisses — 
Ne'er a tiny plant he misses, 
But carries, and spreads, for very mirth, 
Over the waves the scents of earth, 

What sweet songs ! and what sweet laughter ! 

On the waves, and on the sea, 
While we hear a moment after 

Echo hailing them with glee. 
Mistrustful of the rising moon, 
And whistling some old Roman tune, 

The fisher takes his angle home ; 



THE GULF OF BAY A. 53 

While tender youths, and dark-eyed maids, 
By babbling rills, and myrtle glades, 
Gather life's blisses as they roam. 

But already darkness falls, 

Black and fearsome grows the sea, 
Gone are all those merry calls, 

Dread silence where those calls should be ! 
Now croaks the frog, the night-owl flits, 
And deep-brow' d Melancholy sits 

Brooding o'er the ruhrd scene, 
For every stone and statue fair, 
Each half-waird Temple crumbling there, 

Can tell of what has been. 

For crush' d beneath the weight of some fell 
despot's sway, 
Naught is there left of freedom — naught of 
the olden time, 
Where, in Italia 1 s borders, can we find to-day 
Men to hail as heroes, and deeds to term 
sublime ? 
Each grass-grown stone — each ruin hoary 
Should call up burning thoughts of liberty and 

glory ; 
Just as in some old temple, tho' of its charms 

bereft, 
We feel the influence still the former god has 
left — 



54 THE GULF OF BAY A. 

Yet Brutus' shades, and Cato's, still fondly call 

in vain 
For manly hearts to build the old world up 

again — 
Go ask these ruin'd walls, and crumbling as they 

are, 
They'll give you happier thoughts, and mem'ries 

sweeter far ! 

Here Horace had his country seat, 

And here in solitude he wrought ; 

Here quiet ease, and graceful thought, 
And leisure found a last retreat ; 
Propertius met his Cynthia here, 
And to his Delia's glances clear 
Tibullus breath' d in tuneful notes his tender 

strain ; 
And further down behold where hapless 

Tasso sung — 
The glorious thoughts that flashed across a poet's 

brain, 
Could not shield from penury — could not save 

from pain, 
But drove him forth an exile reviled by 

every tongue ! 



THE GULF OF BAT A. 55 

And back to these same borders at last he came — to 
die, 
He came, when Glory call'd him, and perish' d in 
her womb, 
The bays he madly yearn' d for again appear' d to fly — 
The tardy laurel ripen' d but to darken o'er his 
tomb! 

O Hill of Bay a ! — Home of Bards sublime ! 
Beneath thy greensward, and thy scented thyme, 

All that is noblest in us lie3 ! 
For Love and Glory now are thine no more. 

The only answers to my cries 

Are the dull ocean's sullen sighs, 
And my own voice re-echoed from the shore ! 

Thus all is changed, and all is past, 

Thus we ourselves must pass away ! 
For nothing in this world can last, 
But Life and Love are gone as fast 

As the bright track that mark'd our way ! 



56 REMEMBER ME. 

XVI. 
REMEMBER ME. 

(SEGUR.) 

You must leave me, darling, for glory, fame, and strife, 
My sad heart shall follow where'er you chance to be — 

Away ! Shake off the chains that bound your boyhood's 
life, 
Follow honor, darling, but still remember me ! 

To Duty, as to Love, be steadfast, true, and leal, 
Seek and strive for glory, shame and dishonor flee, 
ver when you're rushing upon the foeman's steel, 
First among the foremost, but still remember me. 

Tho' I tremble for you 'mid the fierce clang of arms, 
I almost dread the time when peace shall set you free, 

Then will other maidens, with nobler, lovelier charms, 
Fondly smile upon you, but still remember me. 

Love and Mars together cause many a maid to pine, 
And there'll be broken hearts among the girls you 
see, 
Perhaps softer lips you'll press, but none so true as 
mine, 
Yes, be happy, darling, but still remember me. 



SUNSET. 57 

XVIL 

SUNS ET. 

(V. HUGO.) 

Oh hey, then, for wings in the clouds, 

Let me fly away, let me fly, 
Afar from where mortals in crowds, 

But weary and sicken and die ! 
Let me fly to the worlds of the bright, 

Ere the spark of being is out, 
Enough of the gloom of the night, , 

Enough, too, of longing and doubt ! 
The voice which I hear from on high, 

111 understand better up there, 
Oh hey, then, for wings in the sky, 

Or a sail-djiven vessel of air ! 
I am longing to visit the stars, 

And the flaming cross of the South, 
And, maybe in Venus or Mars, 

I'll satisfy longing and drouth. 
And perhaps, too, a son of the lyre 

May read the words writ on the sky, 
In the starry pages of fire, 

And tell them to all by and by ! 



58 FOR EVER. 



XYIII. 
FOR EVER. 

(e. de girardin.) 

Alas ! IVe made the cruel vow, 

My cruel mother bade me make, 
I must not own I love him now, 

Altho' my loving heart should break ! 
I must not look the things I feel, 

I must avoid him when alone, 
But if his love be true and leal 

His heart will surely read my own. 

In vain, I bind myself to keep 

This law, however hard it be — 
There is a language, mute but deep, 

Which will betray in spite of me, 
And tho', whene'er he tries to speak, 

Still faithful to the vow I fly,. 
My very fears will prove me weak 

And let him guess the reason why. 

Since I remember once he said 
He loved a simple dress the best, 

I'll have some flowers upon my head, 
And his own bouquet in my breast ; 



FOR EVER. 59 

Til strive to hide my longing glance, 
And wait, not seek him at the ball, 

But surely in the passionate dance 
My throbbing heart will tell him all. 

If I must sing when he is there, 

I'll choose one of his f av'rite songs ~ 
Some sweetly sad, lone, plaintive air, 

That hopes and fears and loves and longs ; 
And tho 1 I sing the whole song thro' 

With downcast looks, and drooping eyes, 
He'll guess, he'll know that I am true, 

In spite of all this forced disguise. 

They bid me laugh away my tears, 

But how shall I a light heart feign ? 
No, I will shun all those he fears, 

Rather than give one moment's pain ; 
And, tho' I hide my aching heart, 

I'll live for him — for him alone, 
And so, when we are forced to part, 

His heart at last will read my own. 



60 VENICE. 

xsx. 

VENICE. 

(alf. de musset.) 

In Venice not a barque 
Is stirring, — all is dark, 
For thro' the gloomy night 
Breaks ne'er a light. 

The lion, gaunt and grand, 
Seated upon the strand, 
Scans the wide waters o'er 
For evermore. 

While many a ship and boat, 
In groups around him float, 
Like herons lull'd to sleep 
Upon the deep. 

Over the misty sea 
Fluttering lazily, 
Streamers and sails unfurl' d, 
Clinging and curl'd. 



VENICE, 61 

Now the moon's dreamy light 
Is flooding all the night, 
From many a glimmering cloud, 
Her airy shroud — 

Just as some novice would 
Draw on her ample hood, 
Yet leaving still, I ween, 
Her beauty seen. 

And the still water flows 
Past mighty porticoes, 
And stairs of wealthy knights, 
.In lordly flights. 

And the pale statues gleam 
In the pure light, and seem 
Like visions of the past, 
Come back at last ! 

All silent, save the sound 
Of guards upon their round, 
As on the battled wall 
Their footsteps fall. 

More than one damsel stays 
Beneath the pale moon's rays, 
And waits, with eager ear, 
Her cavalier ; 



62 VENICE. 

More than one girl admiring 
The charms she is attiring ; 
More than one mirror shows 
Black dominoes. 

La Yanina is lying, 
With languid raptures dying, 
Upon her lover's breast 
Half MFd to rest. 

Narcisa, Folly's daughter ! 
Holds festal on the water, 
Until the opal morning 
Is softly dawning. 

Who then in such a clime 
But has a madcap time ? 
Who but to Love can give 
Life, while he live ? 

Let the old Doge clock strike, 
And hammer as it like, 
And count with jealous spite 
The hours of night ; 

But we will count instead, 
On full lips rosy red, 
So many kisses earn'd, 
And then return' d ; 



THE SONG OF THIRTY YEARS. 63 

Count all your charms, my dear ; 
Count every happy tear, 
That loving hearts must borrow 
From joy and sorrow. 



XX. 

THE SONG OF THIRTY YEARS. 
(nadaud.) 

Time, my pretty one, is flying, 

Strange that we should meet, 
Where the very road seems dying, 

In its last retreat ; 
And the Sun in gloomy splendor, 

Lurks behind the hill, 
E'en a dying day is tender, 

Let me — let me love you still. 

Tho' your glances only fashion 

Ancient memories, 
There is still a depth of passion 

In your liquid eyes ; 
If the Sun his brightness loses 

Under autunm skies, 
I can tell what home he chooses, 

Let me — let me read your eyes. 



64 THE SONG OF THIRTY YEARS, 

Smooth as Parian marble now, 

In a few years more, 
Jealous Time will limn your brow, 

With his tokens o'er, 
And bleach all your locks, my girl, 

Now black as jet; 
Trust me with one glossy curl 

To kiss and fondle yet. 

Very soon a rosy, blushing 

Dimpled cheek like this is, 
Will lose all its joyous flushing 

At my long, long kisses ; 
And your lips will lose, my sweetest, 

Their gay golden smile, 
Tho' most fragrant flowers are fleetest, 

Kiss me with these lips awhile. 

Soon, alas ! you must surrender 

All the rounded charms, 
Of a waist full, yet how slender 

In my circling arms ; 
And the balmy scented nest, 

Of sweet loves and pleasures, 
Still so rich your snowy breast, 

Let me — let me count its treasures ! 



LIKE A SEBPENT DANCING. 05 

What no more for ine in truth ? 

No more for me to-day ? » 
Has desire, the child of youth, 

Fled with youth away ? — 
Nothing when the flame is dying, 

Nothing, sweet, that will 
Catch Love flitting — hold him flying ? 

Let me — let me love you still ! 



XXI. 

LIKE A SERPENT DANCING. 

(BAUDELAIRE.) 

How I love, my languid girl, 
Your voluptuous motion, 

Flashing, as a star might swirl, 
'Cross the starry ocean ; 

With your balmy locks, half free, 

Falling, falling down, 
Vagabond and odorous sea, 

With blue waves and brown ! 

Like a starting ship awaking 

At the morning breeze, 
So my dreamy soul is taking 

Flight for distant seas. 
5 



QQ LIKE A SERPENT DANCING. 

Your deep eyes, which ne'er reveal 

^ Bitter things or sweet, 
Are two frozen gems, where steel 
And cruel gold rays meet. 

There is music's sweetest rhyme 

In your swaying roll, 
Like a serpent keeping time 

On a balanced pole. 

When your head bows 'neath the burden 

Of its sweet idlesse, 
Every motion seems a guerdon 

Of a soft caress. 

And your body sways and fails 

As a vessel might, 
When its full-blown creaking sails 

Touch the breakers white ; 

Till your lips are moist and quivering 
With their pas'nate bliss, 

And your very soul seems shivering 
In a liquid kiss ; 

Like some rare Bohemian wine — 
Conquering wine and tart, 

Sowing, sky-like drink divine, 
Stars within my heart ! 



THE TRY ST. 67 



xxn. 
THE TRY ST. 

(de la vigne.) 

The dawn has charm' d the storm away 
With purple and with azure dyes, 

And every rippling wave at play 
Reflects the glory of the skies ; 

Upon its cosy, grassy nest, 

Aroused from dreams of love and bliss, 
The rose unfolds its glowing breast 

To woo the zephyr's morning kiss ; 

While every soaring warbler sings 
In loving songs unknown before, 

And to the oak the ivy clings 

More tenderly than e'er of yore ; — 

For surely in this dainty dell, 
Half flooded in a crimson light, 

The flowers, the grass have heard you tell 
That you would meet me here to-night. 



68 A LOVE SONG. 



XXIII. 
A LOVE SONG. 

(lamartine.) 

O Lyre ! if thou canst rival on thy strings 
The tender trembling of the zephyr's wings, 

Athwart the feathering oar, 
Or waves that murmur on until they die, 
Or the fond turtle's plaintive cooing cry, 

Upon the echoing shore ; 

If like the balmy breath of some sweet rose 
Thy chords the glorious mysteries disclose, 

Deep hidden in the skies, 
Where angels tell in azure vaults above 
Their soundless ecstasies of yearning love, — 

Like soft eyes unto eyes ; 

If thy sweet strain, in its melodious roll, 
Could fan and kiss my darling's fainting soul, 

Like Love's first thrilling breath, 
And cradle it upon the airy shrouds, 
As heaven's soft wind the stilly silver clouds, 

At daylight's purple death ; 



A LOVE SOJSTG. 69 

While sleeping on the dainty flowers she lies — 
My voice would breathe in longing-laden sighs 

A lifetime of emotion, 
Pure as the joys with which her glances fill me, 
Sweet as the fairy murmurings which thrill me 

From dreamland's echoing ocean ! 

Open your eyes, my sweet one ! let me see 

If your fringed lashes hide one thought of me, — 

One message from your mind ; 
To me your liquid depths are far more dear 
Than the first burst of sunlight warm and clear, 

To open'd eyes — born blind. 

One bended arm her drooping neck caresses ; 
The other, o'er her forehead softly presses 

Its snow-flush 1 d covering, 
Just as the turtle, when in search of sleep, 
Curves her white rounded neck, and plunges deep 

Her head 'neath ruffled wing. 

The low-breathed music of her bosom's motion 
Is mingling with the harmony of ocean ; 

While her long silken lashes 
Shadow a moment on her cheek, then seem 
To pass as quickly as a shadowy dream 

Across a deep eye flashes. 



70 A LOVE SONG. 

Sweet be your dreams, my darling ! soft your rest ! 
What thought my own is sending thro' your breast 

This deep — this long-drawn sigh ? — 
Twin waves that blanch the white rays of the moon, 
In billowing motion, then, ah me ! too soon 

They murmur on to die ! 



Oh, let me breathe upon your lips and take 
Your balmy breath, until my sweet awake — 

The azure of the skies 
Courts the first welcome from your timid sight, 
But, sweet, your soft glanc3 when it sees the light, 

Seeks only for mine eyes. 

Till our deep glances blend in one long gaze, 
Like sparkling waves bedeck 1 d with summer's rays, 

And each to other bears 
The trembling flames that evermore will burn, 
When youthful hearts desire, and pant, and yearn 

With love, and love's despairs. 

Until a tear-drop gems your drooping lashes, 
And like a wandering cloud, conceals the flashes 

That come from lovelit eyes, 
Just as we see upon some rosy morn 
The sun conceal' d behind the tears of dawn, — 

Half hidden in the skies. 



A LOVE SONG. 71 

O Darling, let your soft voice speak 

In words that thrill me thro' to hear, 

Till, from their pas'nate meaning weak, 
They seem to die within mine ear, 

Bidding my half-lull' d soul awake 

And list for love and music's sake. 

A breath, a sigh, then all is still, 

Yet 'tis enough, my soul has heard 

The tuneful melody, and will 

Have power to guess each broken word ; 

Just as the flowerets in the grass 

Know what the waves say as they pass. 

Red lips half parted in a smile, 

When lingering words expire, 
Have sounds for me an after while, 
As thro' some soft iEolian lyre 
The very wind that passes by 
Becomes an angel's minstrelsy. 



Why hide your charms beneath your silken hair ? 

Let me dispel the cloud that shields your blushes; 
Why should you blush, my sweet, at being fair ? 

Yet morn at its own beauty glows and flushes, 
And loveliness is ever deck'd with modest care, 
Where beauty is, be sure a veil is nigh, 
As if to guard it for the sky. 



72 A LOVE SONG. 

Your eyes are sister rivers, 

Where heaven is imaged bright, 
Where the soft fringe quivers 

And shows their azure light, 
Till each thought that in you lies, 
Flashes, darling, thro' your eyes, 

And leaves its image there, 
Just as on the river's breast 
The wandering shadows rest 

Of swans that cleave the air. 

Your brow, rich locks half veiling, 

Half covering in their play, 
Is like a sweet night paling, 

And longing for the day ; 
And your mouth, dear, with its smiles 
Like the retiring wiles 

Of ocean backward blown, 
When she half reluctant grieves 
For the dainty pearls she leaves 

Upon the borders strewn. 

Your feet one moment lying 
Half hidden in the grass, 

Till all the flowers are vying 
To kiss them as they pass, 

And each motion of that warm, 

Lithesome, dainty, soft-curved form, 
So unconstrainVl, so free, 



A LOVE SONG. 73 

Blends like some ethereal choir 
To the soft attuned lyre, 
In one sweet harmony. 



Darling ! close your eyes, or I expire ! 

Their pure chaste flame sets my mad soul on fire, 

Oh close them, or I die ! 
Or rather, sweet one, place your hand in mine, 
Let my fond arms your trembling form entwine, 

In blissful ecstasy ! 

Upon the blue lake's edge there is a hill, 

Whose grass-grown brow is bending, flxt, and still 

To watch the water's flow; 
Lit up all day by the bright sun's warm glance, 
And all day long its quivering shadows dance 

In the cool depths below. 

Two oaks, near standing, where a wild-grown vine 
Clasps their far-outstretch' d boughs, till they entwine, 

A crown on each girds round, 
With its pale verdure bright'ning their dull leaves, 
Till many a happy, gay festoon it weaves, 

And shadows on the ground. 



74 A LOVE SONG 

There 'neath a deep-brow' d rock that hangs above, 
A grotto opes — where many a turtle-dove 

Has coo'd her heart away ; 
Curtain' d by vines and fig-leaves from the view, 
Where garish sunbeams slowly loiter thro' 

To measure out the day. 

Night, and the freshness of the friendly gloom 
Preserves long time the timid, fleeting bloom 

To the sweet violets, 
And, at its further depth, a crystal stream 
Is falling, drop by drop, until we dream 

Of tears and fond regrets. 

The eye, in piercing this green curtain thro' 

Marks but the deep blue waves, and skies more blue, 

And, on the water's breast, 
The fisher's sail, when boldly out it flings 
Athwart the liquid sky, like quivering wings 

Of swallows half at rest. 

The ear can list to sweet sounds evermore, 
Like a long kiss, of waves upon the shore, 

As every riplet dies, 
Or Philomela's song with passion yearning, 
Or the far echo from the rocks returning, 

To mingle with our sighs. 



A LOVE SONG. 75 

Conie, let us seek this happy shade, 

Now that the broad sun dies away, 
And flowerets close their buds, and fade 

Beneath the languid glance of day ; 
This is a heaven, sweet, meant for thee. 
Oh raise thy veil, and let me see 

Eyes that outshine the starry skies ; 
"Whether you speak, or sigh, or dream 
Let, dear, a passing, fleeting gleam 

Come hither from those star-lit eyes. 

Oh let me ! let me strew with roses, 

This downy moss, this rustic seat, 
And, as your dainty form reposes, 

I'll fling myself beside your feet ; 
Happy the green-grown turf you press, 
The buds you thoughtlessly caress, 

Happy the vermeil lips you kiss 
With lips more vermeil still than these, 
Until they cling like garnering bees, 

There own true loves, in search of bliss ! 

If a crown of lilies she weaves 

In her hair, with girlish glee, 
If but one of the broken leaves 

Is wafted by the winds to me ; 
If a soft ringlet of her hair, 
While toying with the sweet cool air, 

But wantons with my lips and breath ; 



76 A LOVE SONG. 

If her pure bosom heaves a sigh, 
Over rny brow there passes by 

A feeling like the wings of death. 

Do you remember, dear, the day 

When the great gods, with tender hand, 
Cast you forth upon my way — 

A shadow on a desert sand ? 
Oh from that hour to this, my own, 
My life's been bound to yours alone, 

And, like a goblet from above, 
O'er-brimming was the cup I quafFd, 
And still in every long-drawn draught 

I find sweet innocence and love. 



Time with his jealous icy blast 

Will wither all your charms, like sweet flowers past, 

And dead, in winter's tomb ; 
Till soft, red lips are kissless, and the joy 
They now can give, tho' now alas ! too coy, 

Has perish 1 d with their bloom. 

Yet when your eyes, veil'd in a cloud of tears, 
Shall mourn the rigor of the fleeting years, 
And see each grace depart, 



A LOVE SONG. 77 

When in the past, as in a stream, you gaze, 
And seek the lovely form of other days, 
Look rather in my heart ; 

There will your beauty flourish years untold, 
There will my loyalty watch you as of old, 

And keep you still the same ; 
Just as a golden lamp, some holy maid 
Might shelter with her hand, while thro' the shade 

She bears the trembling flame. 

Oh when Death smiling comes, as come he must, 
And shatters our twin torches in the dust, 

A stronger love shall bloom, 
Then shall my last sweet resting-place be thine 
And your soft hand clasp' d tenderly in mine, 

In our last bed, the tomb ! 

Or, rather, darling, let us fly away, 
Just as upon some gloiious autumn day 

Two loving swans might rise, 
And, still caressing, leave their wonted nest, 
And seek for brighter lands, and climes more blest, 

And fuller, deeper skies ! 



^7 



78 ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG GIRL. 



XXIV. 
ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG GIRL. 

(PARNY.) 

Her age just flying childhood's playtime, 
As bright and innocent as Maytime ; 
Each charm, each grace, each feature told 

Of Love's affinity and power, 
And that Love's passions might unfold 

At any day, at any hour ; 
Fate, deeming she was all too fair 
For us, and our drear world of care, 
Let her give back her soul to heaven, 
As pure and spotless as 'twas given ; 
And thus, without a parting sigh, 

A smile fades off some eager face, 
And thus the cushat's song might die, 

Without an echo or a trace ! 



SLEEPLESSNESS. 79 



XXV. 

SLEEPLESSNESS. 

(nadaud.) 

Filling the silent night with dread, 
The dismal clock is tolling one, 

As vainly on my burning bed 

I pray for sleep, or for the Sun ; 

But Care, the child of grim unrest, 

Brings a ghost to my whirling brain, 

And tho' an hundred times represt, 
An hundred times it comes again ; 

O Fairy, or Muse, or Immortal, 

Who scentest my dreams like a posy, 

Fling open the golden portal 
Of a land where all is rosy ! 

Recalling childhood's hours, and giving 
To the dim future all you dare, 

Life were scarcely worth the living 

If Hope and Memory were not there ; 



80 SLEEPLESSNESS. 

People my house, as long ago, 

With the old friends I mourn and weep — 
Ah, 'twould appease the daytime's woe 

Could I but see them in my sleep. 

Distance and Time would disappear, 
Just as a flash of light goes b\, 

And, spurning all that binds me here, 
I'd cleave the azure of the sky. 

Ah, what a depth in that blue sky, 

With nigged mountains softly blent, 

As here we wandered, you and I, 

And singing, painting as we went. 

See, friend, that young girl coyly leaning 
Across the flower-grown window-sill, 

Memory forgets her name and meaning, 
But brings me back her features still ; 

Is it Minna, or fair Lulu ? 

Oh whisper your name very low, 
My Life it is you, it is You — 

I dare not breathe your name — ah no ! 

My wound is still open and bleeding, 

She gives me her hand, half in sorrow, 

With a voice, how soft in its pleading, 

She whispers, " To-morrow — to-morrow ! " 



NEW SONG TO AN OLD AIR. 81 

She flics, I will follow my own ! 

But distance and time overtake me, 
Till to-morrow leave me alone, 

And to-morrow do not awake me ! 



XXVI. 
NEW SONG TO AN OLD AIR. 

(V. HUGO.) 

Is there a tuft of grass, 

Naught to deface it, 
Where, in their tiny mass, 

Sunny flowers grace it ; 
Where purple, gold, and red, 
Mix in their scented bed ? 
Under her fairy tread 

Softly I'd place it. 

Is there a loving breast, 

Fond as the willow 
Watching the stream at rest, 

Pure as its billow ; 
Filled with great thoughts, and free 
From all infirmity ? 
Sweet, such were meant for thee, 

Meant for thy pillow. 



82 A VILLAGE MAIDEN'S SONG. 

Is there a loving dream, 
Perfumed with roses, 

Where every sunny beam 
Fresh charms discloses, 

Love-dream which God has blest 

Where fond souls meet, and rest ? 

Then upon such a nest 
Thy heart reposes. 



xxvn. 
A VILLAGE MAIDEN'S SONG. 

(dupont.) 

How happy I am to-day, 

Under these old trees, 
Singing blithely, merrily, 

Snatches of gay glees ; 

The willow is in flower, 

With buds the hawthorn gleaming, 
As I sing the idle thoughts, 

My silly head is dreaming. 



A VILLAGE MAIDEN'S SONG. 83 

The liappy bird is singing, 

I am singing too, 
But my song's worth more than his — 

Endless, deep and true. 

The bird is fearful of the wind, 
And biting frosts and showers, 

While my happy path is strewn 
With nothing but gay flowers. 

If a viper lurk within, 

I say, nothing loath, 
" Sir, go your way, I go mine — 

Room enough for both." 

My parents love me fondly, 

And, darling souls, are willing 

To deck their little idiot out 

With many a hard-earned shilling. 

Each one, when I am passing, 

Tries to steal a glance. 
And each, when I am dancing, 

Begs me for a dance. 

There is only one I love, 

But will he ever know it ? 
If he cannot read my love, 

How can I ever show it ? 



84 FABEWELL. 

Kosy mouth and sparkling eyes 
Tell him, o'er and o'er, 

That a maiden longs to be 
Loved a little more. 



XXVJLLL 
FAREWELL. 

(alf. de musset.) 

Farewell ! Farewell, tho' maybe, dear, 
We part for ever, let us bow — 

Fate calling you has left me here 
To feel I never loved as now. 

Not one sad tear — one fond regret 
Shall well up from my aching heart, 

I can respect the future yet, 

And smiling, I can see you start. 

You go in all your joy and pride, 

In joy and pride you'll soon come back, 

When those who for your presence sigh'd, 
Have pass'd away without a track. 



WISDOM. 85 

Farewell ! fulfil your rosy dreams, 

Drain Pleasure's cup, 'twill drown her sighs ; 
The star that o'er your life-path gleams, 

Will dazzle all our watching eyes. 

One day, perchance, you'll guess the worth 

Of one true heart in unison, 
To cheer us in our fight on earth — 

And what we feel when this is gone ! 



XXIX. 

WISDOM. 

(lamartine.) 

Ye who pass away like shades, 

From this dull dreary world of tears, 
Travellers thro' these gloomy glades, 

Brethren mine in griefs and f ears ! 
List ye now, as deeper, higher, 
Sounds the thrilling glow T ing lyre, 

Bidding Thabor's rocks rejoice ; 
Sion, leveird to the ground, 
Trembling thinks it is the sound 

Of the old Segorian's voice. 



86 WISDOM. 

Hapless are the fools who think — 

Every thought is now a crime, 
As God bade ye, eat and drink, 

Gayly live while yet there's time ; 
He knoweth why the stars are glowing, 
He knoweth why the waves are flowing, 

What waves and stars will never show ye, 
Why day fades 'mid glowing skies, 
Why man breathes a sigh, then dies, 

And ye mortals now what know ye ? 

Sit ye down beside the fountains, 

Where the shade toys with the breeze, 
Where, from green-clad hills and mountains, 

Streams are babbling 1 mid the trees, 
Where the cooling streams are rushing 
Press ye out the red juice blushing — 

Blushing into crimson wine, 
Hand to hand the cup pass round, 
Careless heads with myrtles bound, 

Aching hearts with joys divine. 

Choose ye then a rose of roses, 

From the garlands of Sharon, 
Some sweet maid whose form discloses 

Charms but meant to be your own ; 
Toying with her ebon tresses 
Steep your soul in wild caresses, 

Live, and love, and be ye wise ; 



WISDOM. 87 

Aught beyond her glowing charms, 
Aught beyond her clasping arms, 
Is but vanity and lies. 

As a lily in the night 

By the heavy rain down-bome, 
If the Lord's strong arm should smite, 

Bow ye down your heads and mourn ; 
One tear shed before his feet 
Is an incense far more sweet 

Than a thousand temples' fires, 
And a wounded heart's deep sighs 
Sooner to his presence rise 

Than the altar's softest lyres. 

Stars roll onwards in their course, 

Heedless what their route may be, 
And the Jordan spends its force 

Seeking ever for the sea ; 
Butterflies are flitting till 
Instinct bears them at its will, 

Leaflets, when the summer's past, 
Careless whitherwards they stray, 
Hurried onwards by the play 

Of the whirlwind of the blast. 

Why with care and labor sore 

Poison ye your bounded lot ? 
To-day is surely worth far more 

Than cycles which as yet are not ! 



88 THE ART OF PLEASING. 

Pass away wlien life is spent ! 
Go, where all your fathers went ! 

Sleep, where all your fathers lie ! 
Perhaps another day will dawn, 
Perhaps a rosier, happier morn 

Like Aurora in the sky ! 



XXX. 
THE ART OF PLEASING. 
(deguerle. ) 

You tell me that to bind a lover, 

You have no beauty — have no charms, 

And weeping, darling, you discover 
How vain are all these false alarms ; 

And yet, because of these sweet fears 

You ne'er look lovelier than in tears. 

I love your dimpled smiling frown, 

Your lips as ripe and red as roses, 
Your eyes half peeping, half cast down, 

Your brow where modesty reposes, 
I love your voice when whispering sweet, 

Your caressing hands, your clasping arms, 
I love your dainty little feet, 

I love you, dear, for all your charms, 



THE ART OF PLEASING. 89 

For in thern all my spirit sees 
A soul far lovelier than these. 

Alas ! the rosiest cloud of morn 

Can only for one moment last, 
One moment — and 'tis onward borne 

For ever, on the scouring blast ; 
For beauty leaves when once 'tis seen 
But the regret of having been. 

Soon faded were each beauteous face, 

Like some dull shapeless block of stone, 
Without Love's vivifying grace 

To sculpture out charms all his own. 
Two words will teach the art of charming 

To you — to me — to all, my dear, 
A simple spell, with naught alarming, 

And, if you cannot find it here, 
Go, seek it in the stars above — 

The art of charming is — To love I 



90 UBSULA. 

XXXI. 
URSULA. 

(nadaud.) 

This morning, to my chamber, 

As I lay there sleeping, 
Came a fairy, girlish Sprite 

Round the curtains peeping, 
Half hiding in the curtains, 

Half glimmering thro', — 
I dreamt of you, Ursula — 

Dreamt of you. 

She had your face, my darling, 

And your full soft breast, 
But there seem'd somewhat in them 

Yours have ne'er exprest ; 
Her manner more confiding, 

Her eyes more blue, 
I dreamt of you, Ursula, — 

Dreamt of you. 

Your modesty was blushing 
At its sweet alarms, 

As you coyly clutch' d your robe 
Over all your charms ; 



URSULA. 91 



But the robe was only tulle, 

And looking thro', 
I dreamt of you, Ursula, — 

Dreamt of you. 

Drawing gently to my couch, 

Till so near, so near, 
That your lips were whispering 

Secrets in my ear, 
Heedless then of all the world 

What could I do ? — 
I dreamt of you, Ursula, — 

Dreamt of you. 

Oh, curse the clumsy servant 

Hammering at the door ! 
Till my fairy sprite was gone, 

And my dream was o 1 er — 
What can I do but strive, dear, 

To sleep anew, 
And drearn of you, Ursula ? — 

Dream of you ? 



92 m THE CHURCH OF * * * 

xxxn. 

IN THE CHURCH OF * * * 

(V. HUGO.) 

It was an humble church with broadening portico — 

The church to which we came, 
Where for three hundred years fond souls had wept 
their woe, 

And pas'nate souls their shame. 

Sad it was, and calm as the twilit sky above, 

The church to which we came, 
The un watch' d altar, like a heart bereft of love, 

Had lost its tapers' flame. 

Many a child and mother upon this sounding floor 

Had reverently trod, 
And from these ancient stalls uprise, for evermore, 

Deep prayers, like ours, to God ! 

Mute is the organ now, the master-player gone 

To angels' songs on high, 
He, who wrung forth such strains in his deep plegethon 

As made men long to die ! 

Oh, for a hand like his ! Oh, for a loving touch 

To make each note sonorous ! 
Of yearning hope, and love, and mercy breathe as much 

As could an angels' chorus ! 



m THE CHURCH OF * * * 93 

Body without a soul, mute in the nave it stands, — 

A gem case nothing worth ; 
Yet at the caressing touch of some skill' d master's 
hands 

It brings down heaven to earth. 

For the deep organ's strains, the tempest's burly throe, 

The streamlet babbling free, 
Murmur perchance unto some few of us below, 

Thoughts of Infinity ! 

The church seems lull'd to rest, enveloped in the gloom 

Of Nature's sombrest guise, 
Save where the nickering lamps, in the far distance 
loom, 

Like tear-besprinkled eyes. 

Each passing word we hear, borne on the wings of 
night — 

Each scarcely utter' d prayer, 
As in some lone forest the last bird's drowsy flight, 

Falls thro' the silent air. 

And, while we are praying, with souls o'ercome with 
awe, 

Half hoping, half afraid, 
Something, greater, nobler, than mortal ever saw, 

Seems dying in the shade. 



94 IN THE CHUECH OF * * * 

Sad it was, and calm as the twilit sky above, 
The church to which we came ; 

The unwatch'd altar, like a heart bereft of love, 
Had lost its tapers' flame. 

Your brow in clasping hands is bended lowly down, 

Like the rain-smitten grass, 
While, in the far distance, from the gay, noisy town 

Numberless voices pass. 



And the passing voices sing blithely and cheerily, 

4 'Now is the time for joy, 
For us the gold cups brim with red wine merrily, 

Tho' others' lips they cloy. 

4 'Let us love and be happy, for springtime is dying, 

The urn is quickly fiird. 
Snatch at the sunny hours and seize them while they're 
flying, 

Ere merry lips be still' d. 

" Let us take from each object the best of its dower, 
Take soft warmth from the fire, 

Wine from the ripen' d grape, and perfume from the 
flower, 
From soft eyes fond desire ; 



IN THE CHURCH OF * * * 95 

44 Taste them — taste them throughly, while still they 
can entrance, 
While still they can beguile 
Springtime's parting zephyr, and daylight's parting 
glance, 
And beauty's parting smile ; 

u Go to the end of all, still heaping as we live 

Excesses on excesses, 
Tho' death be in the touch this touch has power to 
give 

The sweetest of caresses. 

"In the rosy beaker, methinks, I love the best 

The last drop ever quaff 1 d, 
There, many a time and oft, lies hidden and comprest 

The essence of the draught. 

" Why then should we hasten to skim each pleasure 
o'er? 
Should we not rather leap 
To snatch where some rich pearl, unknown, unseen 
before, 
Lies buried in the deep. 

"With hands o'er-teeming now, fools are we but to 
gaze 

At what we scarce can clutch, 
Just as some breathless child at running, chasing plays, 

And joys in running much. 



96 IN TUB CIIUBCH OF* * * 

" Enjoy at leisure, 'tis the kindest gift of fate 

In our short merry bout, 
Till, like a torch clown huiTd upon the iron grate, 

Our liyes go sparkling out. 

" Kot aping him who saw his image in the stream, 

And wept for't ever after, 
Since all sweet fruits and flowers on earth, the meetest 
seem 

For red lips ripe with laughter. 

" Sad men, with firm-press' d lips, and eyes serene and 
cold, 
Are mortal after all ; 
Their mighty hearts will melt at the mere touch of 
gold, 
And bend to some girl's thrall. 

1 ' They fall like us in spite of all their foolish pride, 

And their yam bitterness, — 
The loftiest waves upon the foaming, dashing tide 

Soon grovel with the less. 

' i Live we then, and drink we, from even-song to morn 

Oblivion yields relief, 
Till the cups are shatter 1 d, and festal napkins torn 

Like face-cloths of pale grief. 



IJST THE CHURCH OF * * * „ 97 

" The gloomy shade that flits 'cross pleasure's vermeil 
track, 
And joy's bright sunny glade 
"We heed not — eyes cast sunwards, if we look not 
back 
We shall not see the shade. 

"What tho' despair, and grief, and misery and the 
tomb 
Above our heads may shake ! 
What tho' behind us something black as midnight 
gloom 
Is dragging in our wake ! 

" We shall not know it — to the rear all that lowers 

And tells of mortal woes, 
Should we then in making a coronet of flowers 

Have pity on the rose ? 

"Aught in life worth having — the rest is for the 
tomb — 

Is something that will fire us, 
A merry song — a ray of light — a sweet perfume — 

With gayer thoughts inspire us. 

" To-morrow never comes, 'tis evermore to-day, 
And crown' d with glee and joy — 
> Oh woeful is the heart that yields to sorrow's sway, 
And finds that pleasures cloy ! 

7 



98 IN THE CHURCH OF * * * 

" Life is some mad ogre that ever craves for more. 

And craving, shouts and laughs — 
Till the last torch is quench 1 d, and the last flagon 
o'er — 

His regal cup he quaffs." 



While the great town's voices breaking the dead of 
night, 

And swelling thro' the air, 
Said happiness, and joy, and pride, and love's delight, 

Your soft mild eyes said "prayer ! " 



They spoke too loud by far — and you — you spoke too 
low : 

" O God who brought me here, 
And still reserve me here for many a bitter woe 

Which I must trembling fear, 

" Have pity on me, for my sailless skiff is led 

Where'er 'tis willed by You ; 
If guardian angels watch o'er the pure infant's head, 

Why not o'er women too ? 



IN THE CIIURCH OF * * * 99 

"I know our days arc naught — our morning, noon, and 
night 
Is nothing when 'tis weigh' d 
'Gainst Yours — You are the real, the palpable, the 
bright, 
Aught else is only shade. 

"I know it : but within this shade I grope, and fall 

And fain would ask my way ; 
Oh, who will answer while I linger, as I call, 

And listen as I pray ? 

c i No answer comes, but still as here and there I tread, 

A wild fear thrills me thro' ; 
If guardian angels watch o'er the young infant's head, 

Why not o'er women, too ? 

" O Lord, near me no prattling lips, no loving eyes, 

No hearthside where to rest, 
No lordly palace towering almost to the skies, 

No lowly mossy nest ; 

"No bright beacon gleaming to guide me to the land, 
None who would care to dress it ; 

Alas, no friendly arm to clasp my outstretched hand, 
No loving touch to press it ! 



100- IN THE CHURCH OF * * * 

"Lord, far away from You, I fall where I am hurl'd, 

And weep there as I lie, 
Forgotten in .the ruins of a dreary world 

As if thrown out to die ! 

" Yet have I done no ill in this world hard as brass, 
You, Lord, know all my ways, 

Unruffled all my thoughts, and hidden actions, pass 
Before Your piercing gaze. 

" Half of my goods I give unto the poor, and call 

To me the faint and ill, 
Tho 1 none e'er pity me I comfort, solace all, 

And surfer, and am still. 

" Never regardless, Lord, of Your love, or Your hate, 

Have I said what care I ; 
But when I see some lingering pilgrim, dreaming wait, 

I show your door is nigh. 

" You know it, Lord, and still you let my wild tears flow, 

Unsoothed, undried, I ween ; 
All breaks beneath my touch, all trembles where I go, 

All falls on which I lean. 

" My life is hapless now, joyless from childhood's hours. 

Is this, O Lord, Your will ? 
All sunbeams from the sky, that o'er me looms and 
lowers, 

One by one, faded still. 



ZY THE CHURCH OF * * * 101 

" Alas ! for me there is no change of ebb and flow, 

No change of shade and light, 
Each day my spirit sinks still lower and more low 

Among dreams black as night ! 

" They say on wearied hearts, asick with grief and pain, 

Your saving help descends ; 
Sustain me, Lord, I pray ! O Lord my God sustain, — 

On You my all depends ! " 



I gazed long time on her, poor creature, as she pray'd 

So longingly to God, 
And found her grave, and sweet, and fair, yet passing 
staid, 

Worthy the ground she trod. 

I whisper' d, seeking not to trouble her who pray VI, 

So sorrow- worn and weak, 
If by some chance she could not hear within the shade 

Far kindlier voices speak — 

For at the fall of years, as at the sunny glow 

Of youth's bright rosy day, 
God's holy altar, when a woman bendeth low, 

Has something still to say. 



102 m THE CHURCH OF * * * 

"Lady, vdiy let these griefs and bitter sorrows blight, 

Oh why still weep and mourn, 
You with the charming heart, tho' gloomy as the night, 

As pure as rosy dawn ? 

" There are two cups in life — one bitter, and one 
sweet — 
All taste, not you alone ; 
What then if life is crushed beneath your trembling 
feet, 
Your soul is still your own. 

4 'And very soon your soul will bear you to the breast 

Of peaceful azure skies, 
Where troubles cease, and where the weary are at rest, 

Afar from mortal eyes. 

" Be like the happy bird, for one short moment staying, 

As joyously he sings, 
And fearing, dreading naught, altho' the branch is 
swaying, 

Knowing that he has wings." 



BABCAROLE. 103 

XXXIII. 
BARCAROLE. 

(P. DUPONT.) 

Let us leave our oars at rest 
On the river's sleeping breast, 

While our fond fancies roam, dear, 
To some nook, on yonder shore, 
Where Fate surely has in store 

Some little cosy home, dear ; 

And, fiird with all the thoughts this brings, 
We'll let the idle stream flow by, 

And Love shall use his fairy wings, 
And fan our shallop with a sigh. 

Let us leave, &c. , &c. , &c. 

I tremble, darling, when you bend 
To pluck the lilies from the wave, 

Tho' sweetly spray and sunshine blend 
Each smiling riplet is a grave. 

Let us leave, &c, &c, &c. 

But clasp one arm around my neck, 

Then gather flowers, I care not how, 

For if our little skiff should wreck, 
No power could separate us now ! 

Let us leave, &e., <tc, &c. 



104: THE BUTTEBFL Y. 

But floating down to some lone spot, 

We'd sleep beneath the crimson heather, 

And in a sweet forget-me-not 

Our souls would grow and twine together. 

Let us leave, &c. , &c. , &c. 



XXXIV. 
THE BUTTERFLY. 

(lamartine.) 

Born with the springtime, with the roses dying, 

Floating on Zephyr's wings thro' azure skies, 
Upon the flowers' half-open' d bosoms lying, 

Stiird with the flood of light and perfumed sighs, 
Shaking, in youth, the dust from dainty wings, 

And rising like a prayer to vaults eteme — 
Sueh life a butterfly's, and still it brings 

Thoughts of the soft desires that in us yearn, 
And still unsatisfied deflower all mortal things, 

Then to the gates of heaven in search of bliss return ! 



MY SPANISH GIRL. 105 

XXXY. 
MY SPANISH GIRL. 

(alf. de musset.) 

A Spanish girl, with witching eyes 
That wakening sparkle with delight, 

Cradled upon my heart she lies, 

And slumbers thro' the livelong night, 

Around me clasped one showy arm, 
And like the swan's white neck it gleams, 

Bowing beneath the potent charm, 
And influence of soothing dreams. 

Gay cherubim around her sing ! 

Hover, sweet birds, above our nest ! * 
Gild with the shadow of your wing 

Her happy sleep which God has blest. 

For everything around is urging 

To drive all else but love away, — 
Our pleasures heedless of life's surging, 

Our curtains heedless of the day. 

Cool, sweet, my mad soul with a kiss, 
My parch' d lips with thy balmy breath, 

Oh let us rest alone like this 
Until the parting hour of death ; 



106 MY SPANISH GIRL. 

Still rest, and perhaps the wandering star,* 
Altho' upon destruction bound, 

As the cow'd sages dread afar, 

Will leave our corner safe and sound. 

I prithee, with those arts of thine, 

Cure my wild soul — my deep emotion; 

Commingle, sweet, your thoughts with mine — 
A streamlet with a roaring ocean. 

For can yon ever fully know 
How often I have wept at life ? 
. What deep, unutterable woe 

In my poor heart is always rife ? 

O mistress mine, as here I languish, 
Cover my lips with sweet caresses, 

And I will tell you all mine anguish, 
While toying with your silken tresses ; 

Tell all, and I will quite forget 

That last night, when I tried to speak, 

You slept, without the least regret, 
Your soft lips pressed upon my cheek. 

So cradled on my heart she lies, 

And slumbers thro' the livelong night, 

This Spanish girl with witching eyes, 
That wakening sparkle with delight. 

* The comet of 1832 appeared at this time. 



ALL IX ALL. 107 

XXXVI. 
ALL IN ALL. 

(BAUDELAIRE.) 

Ca^ie the Demon on a visit 

To the garret where I dwell me, 
Thinking he could catch me tripping. 

Quoth he ; ; Mortal, truly tell me 



5s 



1 ; Among all the rich enchantments 
Her luxuriant form discloses, 

Among all the charms that thrill thee, 
Black as ebon, red as roses, 

" Which is sweetest \ " To the Hateful 
Thus my soul spake, * * 'A[ong the rest, 

Since her charms are one perfection, 
Xo thing in her can be best ; 

" Where all charms me I ignore me 

What it is can most delight, 
For she dazzles like the morning, 

And consoles me like the night ; 

1 i And the harmony that governs 

All her being is too broad, 
For my powerless thoughts to number, 

And to tell each countless chord : 



108 TO A LADY. 

"Music to her sighs bestowing, 
Fragrance to her whispers lending — 

O mystic metamorphosis 
Of various senses blending ! " 



XXXVII. 
TO A LADY. 

(V. HUGO.) 

Oh if I were but some mighty king 
With sword-girt vassals leal and true, love, 

With all the wealth that the merchants bring, 
With purple robes and a golden crown, 
With a palace in some stately town, 

With countless ships upon countless seas, 

I'd willingly give up all of these 
For one look from you, love ! 

If I were a god over sea and land, 

I would barter all my rights I wis, dear — 
The glistening waves on a pearl-strewn sand, 

Rivers, and mountains, and waving corn. 

The songs and the flowers of early morn, 
Angels, and demons, and worlds above, 
And chaos, and space, and time, and love 

For one single kiss, dear ! 



THE OATHS. 109 

XXXVIII 

THE OATHS 

(de la vigne.) 

Yes, I obey thee ! I will swear to chain 

Each maddening transport, and each passionate thrill, 
By all the gods I will no more profane 

The modesty which galls yet charms me still ! 

I swear by thee, O holier than the skies ! 

I swear to clasp thy hand no more in mine, 
I swear my downcast and averted eyes 

Shall let thee hide the liquid light in thine ! 

And more, I swear, when we twain are alone 
And thy soft lips find haven on my cheek, 

Tho' my strong clasping arms are round thee thrown, 
Shalt find, sweet, if thou wilt, mine arms, but weak ! 

I swear that when some frenzied deep emotion 

Glows, throbbing, sweeping thro' thy balmy breast, 

Like the long waves upon a surging ocean, 
My aching head shall there no more seek rest ! 

And, darling, when my mad lips are on fire, 
No more to thy soul-breathing lips I'll cling, 

Till soft reproaches and regrets expire 
In a caressing tender murmuring ! 



110 THE MAEQUESA VAMAEGUI. 

And tho' my burning brain should whirl and riot, 
Tho' every pulse with restless love be torn, 

I swear to see thee, dear, at least in quiet, 
I swear — she conies ! my own ! — I swear I naught 
have sworn ! 



XXXIX. 
THE MARQUESA D'AMAEGUI. 

(alf. de musset.) 

A sweet brunette with neck as white 

xYncl dazzling as a neck can be, 
Pale as a lovely autumn night, 
She is my joy — my soul's delight — 
The Marquesa d'Amaegui ! 

For her sweet sake a thousand times 

I've drawn my sword in bloody fight, 
For her I've made a thousand rhymes, 
A thousand hours, when midnight chimes, 
I've watch' d her shadow cross the night. 

She's mine, my darling, she is mine ; 

Her black eyes and the love they fling, 
Her dainty limbs, her waist divine, 
The massy locks that round her twine 

Deep as the mantle of a king. 



THE MABQUESA DAMAEGUL 111 

All mine — that neck half backward drawn, 
That rosy mouth from which I sip her 

Sweet balmy kisses, fresh as morn, 

That rounded arm in whitest lawn, 

That foot in black embroider 1 d slipper. 

And when around her black eyes throw 
Loving looks from 'neath their lashes, 

The veriest saint e'er died below 

To touch her garment's hem, I trow, 
Would give his relics and his ashes. 

Superb she is, when half undrest 

On her voluptuous couch she lies, 
With liquid glance, and heaving breast, 
And pearly bite, and lips comprest 

With passionate love almost she dies. 

How pretty, when with merry glee, 

Singing her morning roundelays, 
And, fastening o'er a comely knee 
A jewelled garter, you may see 

Her bosom pant 'neath silken stays. 

Then hey my page for ambuscades ! 

Come giddy pate with mischief weighty 
We'll rouse all Spain with serenades, 
And break the sleep of all alcades, 

From Toloso to Guadelete ! 



112 UNDER THE LINDENS. 

XL. 
UNDER THE LINDENS. 

(P. DUPONT.) 

Do you forget the linden trees, 

Upon that balmy night in June, 
Where all was silent save the breeze, 

No witness but the half - veil 1 d moon, 
When, flinging off all vain disguise, 

I cast myself before your feet, 
And strove to read in your deep eyes 

If you could love me, sweet ? 

Your soft hands press 1 d my own again, 

And all my cruel woes seem'd ended, 
As by some unseen, fairy chain 

I felt that our two lives were blended ; 
I never shall forget the charms 

I found in every thrilling tone, 
When, nestling, trembling in my arms, 

You vow'd to be my own. 

You vow'd to be my own for life, 
And on those loving words I fed ; 

But broken vows bring heartsore strife 
Till love itself is almost dead ; 



OF WHOM IS HE THINKING? 113 

Yet to these linden trees I fly, 

In spite of winds and stormy weather, 

And wish that I had chanced to die, 
E'er we came here together. 



XLI. 
OF WHOM IS HE THINKING? 

(e. de girardin.) 

Angel, with the starry eyes 

Of deep knowledge fraught, 
Tell me all the truth that lies 

In his hidden thought ! 
When the gallant vessel dashes, 

Onward never shrinking, 
Tho' the wild sea foams and lashes, 

Of whom is he thinking ? 

When the white and dro oping sail 

Flutters lazily, 
And the stars with beauty pale 

Glitter o'er the sea ; 
When the silvery clouds are weaving, 

Round the white moon gleaming, 
If his breast a sigh is heaving, 

Of whom is he dreaming ? 

8 



114 OF WHOM IS HE THINKING? 

When his mind for want of love 

Glooms as black as night, 
If some lonely turtle-dove 

Pauses in her flight, 
And, then if this random meeting 

Save from tears and shaming, 
And seem to hear a loving greeting, 

Whom then is he naming ? 

When the raging mad sea roars, 

At the midnight hour, 
And echo'd back from rocky shores 

Gloomy tempests lower ; 
And stout masts are straining, creaking, 

Greater ills dissembling, 
If his heart were truly speaking, 

For whom is he trembling ? 

Does he guess, or can he know 

He is very dear, 
Does he think of long ago, 

And of some one here ; — 
When the good ship comes back laden, 

Every tongue of home ties speaking, • 
When each seeks his own true maiden, 

Whom will he be seeking ? 



TO ELVIRA. 115 

XLIL 
TO ELVIRA 

(lamartine.) 

When thinking, dreaming, we two are alone, 
And your soft hands are trembling in my own, 
To loving bliss I leave my yearning soul, 
And let the happy hours unheeded roll : 
When in the forest glades, by whispering streams, 

Your soft sighs breathe their music in my ear ; 

When I repeat the vows I murmur' d, dear, 
In the wild broken words of last night's dreams ; 
When on my trembling knees your forehead lies, 

And makes me happy with its sweet repose ; 
And when your looks are fastened on my eyes, 

Just as a bee upon a summer rose, 
How often then, in my poor throbbing heart, 
I feel some vague, some shadowy terror start ; 
You see me tremble, and I pale — I lie 

As dead, tho' on the breast of happiness, 
And foolish tears flow down, I know not why, — 

With clasping arms, and many a soft caress, 
You look me thro 1 with loving fears, 
Till your bright pearl-drops mingle with my tears — 
" Oh tell me, darling, of your hidden grief," 

You whisper, "Let me lull, and soothe and calm, 
Till my sad heart gives your sick heart relief, 

With kisses long as death and words as soft as 
balm ! " 



116 ELEGIES. 

Ask me no more ; sweet, when your soft arms twine, 

m 

And lingering lips, and liquid eyes confess 
That every feeling of your heart is mine, 

I feel as stunn'd with too great happiness : 
But in the bosom of each happy day, 

An unknown voice is whispering unknown fears, 
That happiness and love will fly away 

Upon the swift wings of the passing years, 
And love's own torch be quench' d with love's own bit- 
ter tears ! — 
That this sweet life, where all things seem 

To be in one long pleasure blended, 
Is but an idle waking dreaui 

Of happiness that should be ended ! 



XLIII. 
ELEGIES.* 

(PARNY. ) 

I. 
The Morrow. 

At last, my sweet, at last, 

The charming crime is o'er and past, — 

* These Poems, selected from Parny's Elegies, are numbered so as to 
form a consecutive series. 



ELEGIES. 117 

The sin you wish'd yet dreaded before, 
And tasting, now almost dread the more ; 
What has it left in your soul, my dear ? — 
A little trouble, a souvenir, 
Astonishment at its new-bom fire, 
A sweet regret, and a coy desire. 
Already the rose is blending 

With the lily on your cheeks, 
And already love is lending 

A soft languor to your eyes, 

And a liquid glance that speaks 

All the fulness of your sighs : 
And your bosom not so cold, 
Not so coy, sweet, as of old, 
Kepulses, in its wayward grace, 
Its fairy covering of lace — 
By a jealous mother's care 

Balmy bosom were you hidden, — 
Soon a lover's hand may dare 

Seek and find sweet love unchidden ! 
And a reverie replaces 
All the winsome, girlish graces 
That made Love himself despair 
He could find no haven there ; 
But now every passing feeling, 

Every thought, abandon' d wholly 
To the languor, gently stealing, 

Of a charming melancholy ! 



118 ELEGIES. 

Oh, let censorious fools contemn 

The joys that were not meant for them ! 

The pleasure that the gods have given, 

To be a foretaste perhaps of heaven ! 

In every mortal heart it glows, 

The only solace to our woes, 

And will, unto the end of time, 

Whenever youth and beauty meet, 
'Twere burning shame to call this crime, 

No crime could ever be so sweet ! 



ii. 
Lines Carved on an Orange-Tree. 

O orange-tree ! whose spreading flowers 

Have many a time conceal' d our caresses, 
Receive, and keep these lines of ours, 

The offspring of our tendernesses ; 
And tell to those whom happy leisure 

May bring into this fairy glade, 
That if a youth could die of pleasure, 

I would have died beneath thy shade ! 



ELEGIES. 119 



iii. 
The Ghost. 

Health is flying shatter d, broken, 

Flying from my eager clutch, 
Failing nature gives a token 

That I should not trust her much ; 
Soon this " Comedy of Errors" 

In the second act must end, 
With the aid of all the terrors 

That the part of death can lend, 
And before you can regret me, 
The curtain falls, and all forget me. 
What goes on behind the curtain, 

No one knows, my dear, but still 
You and I may both be certain, 

If I can return I will. 
Not when gloomy darkness lowers 
Like these clumsy ghosts of ours, 
Usher' d in by sighs and groans, 
Skeletons of rattling bones — 
Eager how to please you most 
I will be a losing ghost, 
Seeking oft a soft disguise 
In the zephyr's balmy sighs; 
Softly stir the artless plume 

Woven in your silken hair, 
Till your tresses 1 faint perfume 

Mingles with the fragrant air. 



120 ELEGIES. 

If your own, your favorite rose 
Lovelier buds than wont disclose ; 
If your tapers shine at night 
With a doubly brilliant light ; 
If your soft cheeks glow and flush 
With a sudden joyous blush ; 
Often if the silken chord, 

Lacsd too tightly o'er your breast, 
Unclasps of its own accord ; 

If the sofa, where 'tis press' d, 
Folds you in its fond embrace, 
Yields its softest, cosiest place — 
Give me but a single smile 
For my care of you the while. 
When again I see your charms, 
Clasp them in my unf elt arms, — 
As a butterfly might press 
On the roses 1 loveliness, 
Then my voice will faint and die 
In a loving, tender sigh, 
Till you think you hear again, 
As of old, my lyre's fond strain, 
When it taught you, darling, part 
Of the echoes of my heart ; 
With the aid of love's wild schemes 

Every guise of pleasure taking — 
In the shadow of your dreams 

I myself will cause your waking ; 



ELEGIES. 121 



And with daylight find, O shame ! 

That my love is all in vain — 
Once a ghost one's mortal frame 

Cannot be resumed again. 



IV. 

Plans of Solitude. 

Come let us fly this shore, now grown so drear, 

Since love is almost kill'd with hidden fear, 

And half our days are lost in idle dreams : 

Far out at sea the dying sunset gleams 

Upon a little isle, whose coral beach 

Is safely guarded from the trader's reach ; 

Here generous nature every gift bestows, 

And here the coolest zephyr softly blows ; 

While silver streams wind in and out the trees ■ 

To bear soft woodland whispers to the seas ; 

An idle hand might tend the laden vines, 

The water-melons, and the scented pines, 

And orange-groves that bend beneath then- showers 

Of luscious golden fruits and fragrant flowers. 

"What could two happy lovers wish for more 

Than what we'd find upon this pleasant shore ? 

The ocean guards it round, and twice a day 

"We'll loiter round the pleasant sea-girt way, 



122 ELEGIES. 

Here from a father's rage should I be free, 
And you give every thought to love and me 
And all the days, with love and pleasure crown' d, 
In one long endless chain of joys be bound, 
Till I should change in every fond caress 
My dreams of glory for true happiness. 
Come let us bid these shores a long adieu, 
Where I am only held by love and you. 
See, darling, Venus shining thro' the night 
Eager to aid us with her friendly light ; 
While iEolus will lend a favoring breeze 
To bear us safely o'er the trackless seas ; 
And Love himself will steer us thro' the foam, 
And guide two lovers to their island home. 



Billet. 

When midnight chimes 

Its muffled peal 
For bygone times, 

A hand will steal 
Right softly thro' 

Your latticed pane, 
In search of you, 

And love a^ain. 



ELEGIES. 123 

And prithee, mark ! 

A lover's eyes, 
E'en in the dark, 

Hate all disguise ; 
So for his sake, 

His happiness, 
He prays you take 

Love's sweet undress ! 



VT. 

The Rebellion. 

It is done, I break my chain ; 
Friends, I seek your arms again ! 
Rosy lips and sparkling eyes 
Are not worth a lifetime's sighs ; 
Now I blush for very shame 
That I ever felt their flame ; 
I will bask me in the pleasure 
Of a calm contented leisure ! 
Come, O Jolly God of Wine ! 
Fill this gloomy brain of mine 

With your maddest songs ; 
I will steq} my burning soul 
In the rosy brimming bowl, 

Till I drown my wrongs. 



124 ELEGIES. 

What said I, madman ? oh ! how can I feign 

A merry heart amid my grief and pain ? 

How can I smile with eyes worn out with tears ? 

Fling out the wine, it cannot drown my fears. 

O friendship ! e'en your voice cannot control, 

Tho' passing sweet, the anguish of my soul ; 

In yain would you beguile, in vain conceal, 

You only probe the wound you cannot heal ; 

Too late your prudence and your schemes, forsooth, 

O let me lull me in the lap of truth, 

And dream awhile of soft chimeras bright, 

And sing of freedom, tho' the chain clasps tight, 

Clutch the shade of passing fears, 
And speak of joy's delight 

While shedding bitter tears. 
These peaceful days will come once more, 
When all these passionate dreams of love are o'er, 
When reason wakes, and o'er the gloomy night 
Of errors sheds her calm and tranquil light, 

Time with his fleet wings, half in play, 
Will bear our passions and desires away, 
And bring our wayward wanderings to a close. 
Ah! then, my friends, at last I'll break the chain, 

And cured of all my woes, 
111 seek your sheltering arms again 

And there find deep repose. 
Then will you aid me, perhaps, when I confess 
My bygone hours of yearning tenderness, 
And when I dream again the pleasure born 
In my happy, rosy morn, 



ELEGIES. , 125 

And, while you see my eyes filTd with the tears 
Drawn from loving hopes and fears. 
Sigh spite myself, blush at my errors, yet 
E'en blushing feel that I must still regret ! 



YXE. 

Spite. 

Yes, I will shun 
The faithless one, 
Who snared and caught 
My every thought ; 
And, if I grieve, 

I'll hide despair, 
Like her deceive. 

And love elsewhere. 
Now in the prime 

Of rosy youth, 
She gibes at time, 

And laughs at truth. 
Coquette, and vain 
My vows, my pain 
She scorns outright, 
And false, and light 
She schemes and tries 

To please and shine, 
In other eyes, 

Than these of mine. 



126 ELEGIES. 



Well! let her boast 

My fond alarms, 
And all the host 

Of all her charms ; 
There comes a day 

"When all the Graces 
Will fly away, 

And on their traces 
E'en Love will fly, 

O cruel flight ! 
Then hope, " Good-by ! " 

And power, ' ' Good-night ! " 
Content and free, 
As man can be, 
I'll pass her while, 
With many a smile, 
I'll have a care 

To mutter low, 
That she was fair — 

But long ago ! 



VIII. 

To Love-to have Loved. 

To love is life's own soul of bliss, 

Still growing fuller, deeper, stronger, 

With every pleasure, every kiss : 

To have loved is to live no longer — 



ELEGIES. 127 

With tears and anguish to have bought 
The truth we never dared have sought, 
That oaths are lies, that what we deem 

Is love, is but an acted part, 
That happiness is but a dream, 

And innocence is but an art ! 



IX. 

By that gay affected Air* 

By that gay affected air 

Others perhaps might be deceived, 
But my foolish heart shall dare 

Hold you all it once believed ; 
How can you, dear, cheat the eyes 

That have watch 1 d you, read you daily, 
"With a little thin disguise 

Of wit, that fain would sparkle gayly ? 
Even, Sweet, your very smile 

Is a smile of grief and fear, 
With a sigh, perhaps, all the while 

Hidden deeply somewhere near ; 
And the roses on your cheek 
Have a languid air, and weak ; 
And you now neglect your charms, 
And my voice gives strange alarms ; 



128 ELEGIES. 

You cut short each random greeting, 

And endeavor, all you may, 
To prevent our eyes from meeting, 

Dreading what your eyes might say, 
. Yet these cruel griefs of thine 
Do but more embitter mine, 
Spite of Fate and human will 
Our fond hearts are constant still — 
Darling, still my throbbing heart 

Loves you with its wildest passion — 
Must we — dare we — can we part 

At the sorry gibes of fashion ? 
But, O Sweet, if every thought 
Of inconstacy is bought 

With an anguish of regret, 
By my love, and for my sake 
I conjure you, dear, to break 

All your vows, and to forget 
All our memories of the past ; 
Then perhaps healing Time, at last, 
With new pleasures will efface 
Every thought, and every trace 
Of the days that fled so fast ! 
I have ills enough to bear 
With the weight of my despair, 
With the coldness you must feign ; 
But I cannot, Sweet, sustain 
The thought that w T hen our lives are parted, 
You, like me, are broken-hearted ! 



ELEGIES. 129 

x. 
Farewell. 

It is time to check our fears, 

And bring errors to an end, 
Time to stop these foolish tears, 

That Love still would have us spend, 
Age of folly ! Oh, how fleetly 
You are going, yet how sweetly ! 
Since all changes" round us, dear, 

"We ourselves must change at last — 
Happiness seems flitting near, 

But we cannot hold her fast ; 
Friendship, perhaps, will bring again 
What Love gives, but gives in vain. 

I must leave this happy shore, 

Where I came with Love and Venus, 
Very soon the waves will roar 

In a horrid gulf between us ; — 
Duty, darling, is a tie 

That I must not, dare not sever, 
Tho' the very word "Good-by" 

Has a meaning of "For ever ! " 
Maybe rumor, maybe fame 
Will bring whisperings of my name ; — 
Wafted o'er the waves and sea, 
Surely yours will come to me, 
9 



130 AN IDYLL. 

Happy if I hear that you 
Are content and happy too. 
Still I'll hold our past above 

All that future years can give, 
Trust rne, I shall cease to love 

Only when I cease to live ! 



XLIY. 

AN IDYLL. 

(a. chenier.) 

O Great Apollo ! saving God ! deep skill' d 

In potent charms from healing herbs distill' d, 

O Conquering God, who slew the Python wild, 

•Take pity on my son, my only child ! 

Take pity on his mother, whose dim eyes 

Would close for ever if her darling dies ! 

O Young God, aid his youth, and with thy power, 

Assuage the burning fevers that devour 

The promise of his manhood in the flower ! 

Ah then, if rescued from the fatal sleep 

At Menalus again he tend his sheep, 

These aged hands, these trembling hands of mine, 

Shall hang the fairest offerings on thy shrine, 

And every summer, as the years succeed, 

A snow-white bull shall on thy altars bleed ! 



AN IDYLL. 131 

My son, my son, give me a word, a token, 
Is this sad silence never to be broken ? 
Oh, can you leave me now, and my gray hairs 
Alone, alone with anguish and despairs ? 
You wish that I should close your dying eyes, 
That I should lay you where your father lies ; 
'Tis you who owe me these last duteous rites 

My tomb is waiting for your farewell tears. 
Tell, tell me, son, the burning grief that blights 

Your youth's fair future with its eager fears ! 

O mother, mourn not with a grief like this, 
Before I leave you, darling, one long kiss — 
A mad wild fever racks my weary brain, 
Throbs in each pulse, and bums in every vein, 
Farewell, dear mother, for each long-drawn breath 
Seems the last parting sigh of struggling death — 
Before I could not, now I cannot, speak — 
This downy bed — ah God, I am so weak ! — 
Torments me with its pressure as I lie, 
Turn me upon my side, O Grief, I die ! 

son, my only son, for my poor sake 

1 prithee drink this healing draught, 'twill make 
Fresh life-blood in your heart — at midnight's hour 
With many a secret rite and mystic flower, 
Soften' d by my fond tears, my fond alarm, 

An old Thesallian witch composed the chann. 



132 AN IDYLL. 

Thrice has your body seen the sun arise 

Careless of Ceres, and of sleep your eyes. 

Take, son, this draught, 'tis your poor mothers prayer, 

'Tis she who rear- d you with a mothers care ; 

Clasp' d in these arms, and nestling on this breast 

She sang your childish troubles into rest ; 

She wiled your pattering footsteps thro' the hall, 

With many a promised gift, and beckoning call ; 

She bade you love her, till your prattling voice 

Miniiek'd the sound and made her heart rejoice. 

O cold pale lips, why should you madly shun 

To taste this healing potion ? O my son ! 

Would I could press you to these breasts of mine, 

And pour my life's warm essence into thine ! 

O Hills of Erymanthus, valleys, glades ! 

O fresh sonorous winds that stir the shades, 

And make the water tremble, till its breast 

Seems surging 'gainst the charm of too deep rest ; 

For there, my mother, there beside the lake, 

Comes never deep-fang' d wolf, nor venom'd snake ; — 

But damsels dancing in a hundred throngs — 

O lovely face. O pleasure-clays, O songs ! 

No other place on earth is half so fair, 

O twining limbs, and flowers, and flowing hair ! 

O dainty feet, shall I ne'er see you more ? 

O mother, bear me to the happy shore — 

Oh let me see this once before I die — 

The still smoke floating in the lazy sky 



AN IDYLL, 133 

Above the cot, as in weird shapes it twines, 

And that sweet maid beneath the clustering vines, 

Cheering her father with her maiden wiles, 

And sweet home converse, and sweet home-bred smiles. 

Gods ! I see her as she makes her way, 
With tardy footsteps, o'er the waves of hay ; 

1 see her resting sadly, as she weeps 

Above the tomb where her loved mother sleeps. 
Soft yearning eyes, O will you ever shine 
Thro' loving tears, upon a tomb of mine ? 
And when you near it, darling, will you wait 
To murmur for a moment against Fate ? 

'Tis Love, my son, that racks your weary brain 

"With his fair promise, and his bitter pain : 

O hapless son ! O why should all men, why 

But feel Love's presence, stricken down, and die ! 

For all on earth, and e'en the gods above 

Are conquer 1 d and are smitten down by love ! 

But tell me, son, what nymph, what charming maid 

Have you met wandering in the woody glade ? 

Are you not young and handsome, if wild woe 

Left but your eyes' soft gleam, your cheeks 1 rich glow ? 

Is it Irene with the yellow hair ? 

Or that proud beauty, fairest of the fair, 

Whom Fame has graced with sweetest, womanliest 

charms, 
Whom wives and matrons view with wild alarms, 



134 AN IDYLL. 

That lovely Daphnis ? Mother, what would you say ? 

That she is proud aud pitiless as they 

Who sit ou starry thrones ? Yet all who see 

Have loved her madly — loved in vain like me. 

O mother, let me die, nor let her learn 

With what a dying passionate love I yearn. 

O death ! O torment ! O sweet mother, mine ! 

You see me how I sicken, how I pine — 

Seek her before I die, perchance your years 

Will tell of her loved mother mourn' d with tears — 

O take this basket fill'd with fruits and flowers, 

This onyx cup won in Corinthian strife, 
This ivory love — the hamlet 1 s pride and ours — 

Take my young goats — O take my heart — my life - 
Throw all beneath her feet, tell her that I 
With burning passion languish till I die ; 
Fall at the old man's feet, with tears and sighs 
Adjure him by the gods, the seas, the skies ; 
O mother, start, and if you come again, 
Without good tidings, you will come in vain ! 

My son shall live, 'tis fond hope tells me this. 
She bent her down for one last lingering kiss ; 
On that pale brow, how wan beyond its years, 
But one long kiss, and then with streaming tears . 
She went her way, with aged trembling feet, 
Half failing, and half struggling to be fleet. 
She came again with panting, bated breath — 
O you shall live, my son ! away, O death ! 



THE WATER-JET. 135 

Then fell beside his couch. The old man came 

And the young damsel, blushing in sweet shame. 

Quivering with hope and joy, the sufferer hid 

His trembling head beneath the coverlid. 

With lips that falter 1 d and with cheeks ablaze — 

Dear, you have had no joy for three long days, 

They tell me that a foolish girl, that I 

Can save you from your suffering. — Would you die ? 

Sweet, live for me, and let our homes be one ! 

Your parent have a daughter — mine a son ! 



XLV. 
THE WATER-JET. 

(BAUDELAIRE.) 

Thy deep eyes are weary, poor lover, 

Oh close them, oh close them awhile ! 
Let lips and soft bosom discover 

Thy love in a sigh or a smile ; 
While sweetly the fountain at play 

Keeps tune to each throb of delight ; 
With gay merry prattle by day, 

With passionate sighs by the night. 



136 THE WATER-JET. 

The fountain sheds 

A thousand flowers, 
Where Phoebus spreads 

His choicest dowers, 
As glistening tears 
Of hopes and fears 
Flow downward in their rainbow showers. 

Thus, sweet, when thy spirit is dying 

With love, and the longing of love, 
And rising, and soaring, and flying 

To sunny blue heavens above, 
'Twill spread in a cloud and unclose 

The flood of its languor and sadness, 
xVs thunder-rains beat on the rose, 

To me 'twill bring perfume and gladness. 

The fountain sheds 

A thousand flowers, 
Where Phcebus spreads 
His choicest dowers, 
As glistening tears 
Of hopes and fears 
Flow downward in their rainbow showers. 



O thou whom night makes wond'rous fair ! 

How sweet, as I lie on thy breast, 
To list to the sigh of despair 

That sobs in the waters' unrest : 



A SERENADE. 137 

Tlie night and the water sonorous, 

The dark trees that tremble above, 
And the pure moon glimmering o'er us 

All breathe of my passionate love. 

The fountain sheds 

A thousand showers, 
Where Phoebus spreads 
His choicest dowers, 
As glistening tears 
Of hopes and fears 
Flow downward in their rainbow showers. 



XLYI. 
A SERENADE. 

(P. DUPONT.) 

All roses are alike to me, 

Alike to me the myriad flowers, 
That May-time, in its sunny glee, 

Spreads on the valleys and the bowers ; 
But in the garland of young girls, 

Which glows in fragrance to the sun, 

I worship, and I see but one, 
My pearl of flowers — my flower of pearls ! 



138 A SERENADE. 

Each planet and each wandering star, 
Dancing in circles in the skies, 

Lulls some young fool to dreams afar, 
But all are sisters in my eyes ; 

For all the lights that round us shine, 
All that a maddened brain romances, 
Are nothing, darling, to the glances 

From those soft, loving eyes of thine. 

The nightingale may sing and die, 
And still on that same linden-tree, 

Another bird will love and sigh, 
Before the first has ceased to be. 

The sweetest songs we mortals hear 
In this dull struggling world below, 
All fail to sooth our grief, our woe, 

Save thy soft thrilling accents, dear. 

Let all the sweet flowers fade away, 
Let all the song-birds die of love, 

The cheery light forsake the day, 
The stars fade in the heavens above ; 

Rather than that my rose of girls, 
My star of gold, my passionate song, 
Should suffer half a moment's wrong — 

My pearl of flowers, my flower of pearls ! 



LO VE*S DELIGET. 139 

XL VII. 

LOVE'S DELIGHT. 

(nadaud.) 

O Love. O Pleasure, to my faltering tone 
Lend all the passionate music of your spell, 

Thrill thro' my Fanny's breast until my own 
Is surging with a wild, tumultuous swell ; 

O let us dream not of the world's disgrace, 
But dreain of burning love that never cloys, 

Till on our hearts, locked in one embrace, 
Eain all the pleasures of voluptuous joys. 

O generous nectar, blushing rosy red 

At the sweet thoughts your magic drops inspire ! 
O let me drain your cup till care is dead, 

And I am all afiame with love's desire ! 

Come share the happy transports of your lover, 
Come, come, my darling, to my longing arms, 

And, lying on my throbbing heart, discover 

The wealth and beauty of your glowing charnis ! 

Let the rich masses of your black locks fall, 

And round your dainty waist and shoulders twine, 

And let me live, sweet, on your lips, till all 

Your throbbing heart and heaving breast is mine ! 



140 ALL— ALL IS LOVE. 

O rosy lips, soft neck, and dazzling shoulder 
Trust me but for a moment with your blisses ! 

O snowy bosom as now, coyly bolder, 
You rise and fall, why should you shun my kisses ? 

Let your soft hand be cradled, dear, in mine, 

And in your clasp my trembling hand be pressed ; 

And let my foolish, beating heart divine 
A palpitating echo in your breast. 

O soul of beauty ! with deep lustrous eyes, 
And rounded limbs, and bosom soft and sweet, 

What wonder, darling, that your lover lies 
Dazzled with loveliness beside your feet ! 

O ecstasy of passion — joy's delight ! 

Last as you are for ever, still and deep ; 
Or let us in our twining arms to-night, 

Sleep on for ever, in the last long sleep. 



xLvm. 
ALL — ALL IS LOVE. 

(V. HUGO.) 

To idealize our very dreams — 
Women were given us for this, 

And every power in nature seems 
To teach us how to love and kiss. 



ALL — ALL IS LO VB. 141 

Great Love for girdle proudly owns 
The deep sea, and the azure vast — 

Piercing ahead we hear his tones, 
And in dim vistas of the past ; 

While all that breathes with beauty laden 
Pays Love its tribute for an hour ; 

For if God had not form'd the maiden, 
He surely had not forind the flower. 

Lying on beauty's bosom lightly 
The diamond sheds its choicest hue ; 

Would blue sapphires sparkle brightly 
If blue eyes did not sparkle too ? 

The perfumed breezes from the south, 
The passion-flower, the asphodel, 

The bud with rosy, opening mouth 
Have all their tale of love to tell ; 

Then come, my sweet, since all is love, 
Whether we look that side, or this, 

Around, beneath us, or above, 

Come, darling, prove it with a kiss. 



142 A MOBNING SERENADE. 

XLIX. 
A MORNING SERENADE. 

(V. HUGO.) 

'Tis dawning yet, thy door is fast, 
Each flower its pearly bath is taking, 

The lazy rose unfolds at last 

To tell thee it is time for waking. 

I prithee, sweet, 

Arise and see 
One at thy feet 

Lives but for thee. 

All nature in its bright array 
Knocks at thy door in rustic fashion ; 

The lark is telling of the day, 

My heart is thrilling with its passion. 

I prithee, sweet, 

Arise and see 
One at thy feet 

Lives but for thee ! 

A woman — I can only love, 
An angel — I can but adore thee, 

Yet trust me, dear, the powers above 
Have made me wholly, solely for thee. 



AN A UTUMN E VK 143 

I prithee, sweet, 

Arise and see 
One at thy feet 

Lives but for thee ! 



L. 

AN AUTUMN EVE. 

(alf. de musset.) 

POET. 

My griefs have vanish' d like a midnight dream, 
All I remember of them I compare 

To those light mists that rise at morning's gleam, 
And with the dewdrops, melt into the air. 

MUSE. 

What grief was it, O Poet tell, 
That sear'd your heart up like a spell, 

And parted our fond souls in twain ? 
Tho' deeply in your heart conceal' d 
Each accent and each glance reveal' d 

The woes I've long time mourn' d in vain. 



±44 AN A TJTUMN EVE. 

POET. 

It was a vulgar evil, and well known, 

But oftentimes when we are sick at soul, 

We think that we, of all the world alone, 
Are crush- d with misery beyond control. 

MUSE. 

It cannot be a vulgar grief 

That comes not from a vulgar mind, 

But tell me all that lurks behind, 
And give your aching heart relief ; — 
Oh trust me, and confess with truth 
That Silence 1 God in very sooth, 

Is brother to the God of Death ; — 
Telling our woes we ofttimes heal 
The very ills that we reveal, 

And mourn and cure them in a breath. 

POET. 

If I must tell thee of my suffering, 

I scarcely know what name it ought to bear, 
Whether it rose from love, or was a thing 

Of pride and folly and my own despair. 
But now I will unfold my burning pain, 

Since we are here, alone beside the fire, 
If thou, dear Muse, wilt lull my racking brain, 

As in my happier days, with thy loved lyre. 



AN A UTUMN EVE. 145 

MUSE. 

Before you tell me your harsh fate 

Drive cruel rancor far away, 

For, Poet, you must speak to-day 
"Without a trace of love or hate ; 
If you remember long ago 

You held me soother of your heart, 

Then would you have me take a part, 
In passions which have wrought your woe ? 

POET. 

So well I conquer^ all this hideous strife, 

That sometimes when I dream me of my ill, 
In those same spots I risk'cl my boyhood's life, 

A stranger takes the place I wont to fill. 
Be fearless then, O Muse, and mark, that while 

I tell my woes, there is no fond regret ; 
Sweet it is to weep, but sweeter still to smile 

At the thoughts of woes we are able to forget. 

MUSE. 

Like a watchful mother bending 

O'er the cradle of her son, 
So I rest, while you are blending 

Future hopes with deeds misdone. 
Speak, O Poet, and my lyre 
Shall every trembling accent fire, 

And lull you with its wonted lays, 
10 



146 AJST A TJTUMN EYE. 

Till, in a flood of silver light, 
Like some vision gay and bright, 

Fades all the gloom of bygone days. 

POET. 

Loved nights of toil, of darling solitude, 

O nights of toil when life sped fast — 
To my old study, in my wonted mood, 

Thank God ! I have come back at last. 
Tho' oft deserted, how I love each wall — 

Each book upon the dusty shelves, 
Remember, Muse, how it was all in all, 

A universe for our two selves ! 
When to the careless scoffing world I told 

The burning songs I heard from you ; — 
Here, in my loved retreat, let me unfold 

The cruel wrongs a girl could do — 
A girl, the loveliest of all around me, 

Breathing of all things save disaster, 
And so I loved the yoke that bound me 

Like a serf unto his master ; 
A yoke detested, for by that my youth 

Grew older than the world can guess, 
Yet near my mistress 1 charms I had in sooth 

Some sunny days of happiness ; 
Some days when violet perfumes fill'd the air, 

Some nights upon the silver sands ; 
Little I reck'd that the wan spectre Care 

Gibed at me with his bony hands. 



AJST A TJTUMN E VE. 147 

I see her still, beneath the bashful moon, 

Her slim waist trembling in my arms ; — 
Speak not of it ; I did not guess how soon 

Cruel Fate would rob me of her charms, 
Perchance the gods were sicken 1 d at the sight 

Of so much mortal happiness, 
And rain'd upon me, in their fell despite, 

An after-life of fierce distress. 

MUSE. 

The memory of a bygone spell 

Has flown upwards in your thought, 

On the scar that it has wrought ; 
Wherefore shouldst thou fear to dwell ? 
Tell thy tale without a smart, 

And renew thy happy days ; 
If Fortune broke a trusting heart, 
Take at least a nobler part, 

And laugh at youthful folly's ways ! 

POET. 

Nay, at my misery rather let me laugh, 

And let me tell thee, Muse, without one sob, 
What bitter draughts of half -dream' d dreams I quaff, 

Since I aroused from passion's burning throb. 
It was, I mind me, a drear winter night, 

Sad and so cold, unlike a night like this, 
The murmur of the breeze now breathing light, 

Now pouring down the whole street with a hiss ; 



148 AN A UTUMN EVE. 

And at my window waiting her I stay'd, 

Hanging upon each footfall in the dark, 
"When all at once I felt my soul betray' d, 

And my whole body froze up stiff and stark ; 
Still was the busy city's noisy roar, 

And naught but torch-lit shadows flitted by, 
The very wind, thro' the half -open d door, 

Breath' d like a sicken' d mortal's dreary sigh, 
And found a hollow echo in my breast ; 

And city clocks rang out their mocking chimes 
Of hours that told of eager sleepless rest, 

And swif t love dalliance of other times : 
She came not, and with throbbing, dizzy head, 

And eager brows, press'd 'gainst the window pane 
I cannot tell what burning words I said, 

Or what wild thoughts came crashing thro 7 my 
brain ; 
I only loved her, but to live a day 

Without her seem'd a torture worse than death, 
I — who was envious of the soft wind's play, 

Because it robb'd me of her balmy breath — 
/felt as tho' I were a thing accurst, 

And mad with too much loving, that I could 
Couple, for one short moment, all that's worst 

Of loathsome crime to her sweet womanhood ; 
Then with a maddening effort of the will 

I rent the veil, and found truth grim and stark, 
Then almost wish'd that I had left it still, 

And gone on loving blindly in the dark. 



AJV A UTUMN E VE. 149 

For then I saw, thro' all their love disguise, 

The snaring beauties that had wrought my woe, 
And viewed her thralling charms with other eyes, 

Than those I gazed with half a day ago : 
And day dawn'd wearily, for I had stole 

Upon the balcony, and tried to freeze 
"With cold, cold limbs the fever of my soul, 

Till my heart's blood seem'd ebbing to the lees ; 
Now all at once I hear the fall of feet, 

Making the dreary silence still more drear, 
Until my eye can pierce the gloomy street, 

To see her come, and feel that she is here. 
What would' st thou, perfidious wretch, reply ? 

Where hast thou been ? in whose bed hast thou 
slept ? — 
Thou, and thy charms, and every charm a lie, 

Whilst I have waited for thee, watch 1 d and wept ? 
Art thou invested by some hideous drouth 

Of loathsome love, and lust in every vein, 
That thou couldst kiss me with thy reeking mouth, 

And twine me hi thy wearied arms again ? 
Begone, thou spectre of my mistress 1 truth ! 

Affrighted to thy tomb by morning's gleam, 
Let me at least forget my poison 1 d youth, 

And, when I think of thee, believe I dreain ! 



150 AN A UTUMN EVE. 

MUSE, 

Calm your aching soul, I pray, 

Of thoughts fraught with such dreams to you, 
Drive these memories far away, 

Or else your wound will bleed anew ; 
A wound like this is very deep, 

No misery can e'er efface it, 
Rise boldly to the ill you weep, 

And sternly from your memory chase it, 
Until all thought of her is o'er, 
Of her, whose name I'll breathe no more. 

POET. 

Shame to thee, who taught me first 

The world of woe that lies in treason ! 
"Who render' d all my life accurst, 

To please thy fancy for a season ! 
Shame to tliee ! — thy cruel eyes 

Play'd their hateful task too well, 
Raising my soul unto the skies, 

To clash it back again to hell ! — 
It was thy face, it was thy smile, 

And those loving, luring glances, 
That taught my boyhood to revile 

All a fond boyhood's wild romances ! 
It was thy charms, thy youthful years, 

That turn'd my happy youth to pain, 
And made me doubt the force of tears, 

Because I wept, and wept in vain ! 



AN A UTUMN EVE. 151 

Shame to thee, for I was still 

As guileless as a babe unborn ; 
My heart, beneath thy mystic thrill, 

Open'd like some ripe bud at dawn ! 
And if this simple guileless heart 

Were ready for the touch of woe, 
It had been, perhaps, the better part, 

Unseat d, unseated, to let it go ! 
Shame to thee ! Of all my grief 

Thou wert the foster-nurse — nay, mother, 
'Tis vainly now I seek relief, 

And vainly try my tears to smother ! 
But tears will flow, thou mayst be sure, 

As long as there are tears to stream, 
For such a wound there is no cure, 

For such a grief no dawning s gleam ; 
Still, in this flood of passionate tears, 

I'll wash away all thought of thee, 
And pray, that in the coming years, 

All memory of thee cease to be ! 



Cease, Poet, cease, when near some faithless one, 

For a short day thy fond illusion last, 
Do not outrage that day when it is done, 

If you would still be loved, respect the past ; 
And if for human weakness 'tis too great 

To pardon all the burnings of regret, 
Oh spare thyself at least the scourge of hate, 

Tho' thou canst not forgive, thou canst forget. 



152 AW A UTUMN EVE. 

The dead are sleeping in the earth's still womb, 

So stifled memories sleep in ev'ry breast, 
For the heart's reliques have a hallow' d tomb, 

And no rude hand should dare to mar their rest ; 
These broken dreams, these withered hopes were sent 

To mould true men to living a true life, 
Never a chastening blow, but what is meant 

To bring sweet calm and peace on weary strife. 
For man is an apprentice, and deep grief 

A harsh task-master unto all below, 
And till his time be served, tho' hard 'tis brief, 

No man can know himself as he should know. 
'Tis a harsh law, but old as time and thought, 

It ever has been, and shall ever be, 
That all things at this sad price must be bought, 

That man must be baptized in misery ! 
The sweet green blades would have no golden ears, 

Without the morning dew, nor buds their flowers, 
So life itself is fed, and nursed by tears, 

Life's path is strew' d with roses steep'd in showers, 
O surely now thou art weaned from thy madness, 

For thou art young, and welcom'd everywhere, 
Of those bright joys that change life into gladness, 

Fate has rain'd down upon thee, and to spare : 
And when, at eve, beneath the linden trees, 

Thou drink' st with some old friend to times gone 

by, 

Would the mere thought of such sweet mem'ries please 
Had they been purchased at a price less high ? 



AN A UTUMJX EVE. 153 

Couldst tliou love flowers, and the wind's soft glee, 

And Petrarch's sonnets, and the bird's wild strain, 
Nature and Shakespeare, art and poesy, 

Unless they told thee of some former pain ? 
The stars 1 vast harmony, the night's still quiet, 

When breezes whisper and the river flows, 
Would tell thee naught unless some feverish riot 

Had made thee yearn for infinite repose. 
Now that thou hast a mistress fair as truth, 

When she embrace thee for a last good-night, 
Do not the distant memories of thy youth 

Make soft smiles still more soft, bright eyes more 
bright ? 
Unmindful of the past, when ye twain dare 

Walk the same woodlands, the same silver sands, 
ISTow never more shall the wan spectre Care 

Point out the road with bony, gibing hands. 
Now once again beneath the bashful moon 

Thy darling clasps thee in her loving arms, 
And fond hearts beat to the same loving tune, 

More true, perhaps, than the old, with all the old 
one's charms. 
Why then complain while hope immortal springs, 

From the mere glance of cold misfortune's gaze ? 
And why detest the thoughts your boyhood brings, 

When misery did but lead to better days ? 
O Poet, pity rather her who caused 

Thy weary nights, thy sobbings of distress, 
Who chased the phantom pleasure, and who paused 

'Mid suffering to dream of happiness : 



154 AJSf A UTUMN EVE. 

Her lot was painful, perhaps she loved thee, while 

The tool of Fate, she broke thy trusting heart, 
And womanlike, perchance, her parting smile 

Did but conceal the grief she felt to part. 
Oh, pity her — her love was like a dream, 

She dealt the blow, but could not stay its force, 
Amid thy tears things are not what they seem, 

And love, true love remains, when all has run its 
course ! 

POET. 

Hate is impious, as you say, 

With a cold shudder should one start 
When this vile reptile gnaws his way, 

And coils himself about one's heart. 
Then listen to me goddess mine, 
Be witness to my oaths divine ! 
By my mistress 1 soft blue eyes ; 
By the deep azure of the skies ; 
And by that brilliant sparkling flame, 
That from great Venus takes its name, 
Glittering like some trembling pearl 
On the horizon's starry whirl ; 
By Nature's myriad worlds above, 
And by the great Creators love ; 
By that soft, pure and tranquil light 
That guides the traveller thro' the night, 
By grass and turf, and flowers and thyme, 
And forests rich with summer time ; 



AJSf A UTUMN EVE. 155 

By life and all its smiles and tears, 
The harvest, and the fruit 'of years ; — 
By all these oaths I firmly tow 

This mad love shall no longer last, 
From my life's volume mark me, now, 

Tear out this sad page of the past ! 
And thou, who wislf d that fond regret 

Should gnaw my heart out while I live, 
Learn thatwhen once I can forget, 

In that same moment I forgive. 
I do forgive, and now, my dear, 

Let's break the chain that bound us two, 
And with a last, a parting tear, 

Receive a parting, last adieu ! 

And now come in a merry throng, 

Joyous glees and roundelays ! 
Ah, sing me, Muse, some loving song, 

Like those sweet songs of other days. 
Already the sweet flowers and grass 

Echo the footsteps of the dawn, 
Wake my new love, and as you pass 

Gather the pearl-strewn flowers of morn ; 
All nature's blooming everywhere 

Now that the gloomy hours have run, 
So let us be reborn with her, 

In the first glances of the sun ! 



156 THE ROSES OF FORGETFULNESS. 

LI. 
THE ROSES OF FORGETFULNESS. 

(laucussade.) 

These is a strangely soothing plant among the heart's 

gay flowers, 
That blossoms in the chilly wind, when adverse fortune 

lowers ; 
When the long cherish 1 d dreams of life's young spring 

are fled, 
When all the other buds are drooping in the sear'd leaf, 

and dead ; 
It is the last, the farewell flower that man may pluck 

and caress, 
And this same flower we call the rose of deep f orgetful- 

ness. 

For our poor, aching hearts there are black funereal 

roses, 
Upon their sad and wither 1 d leaves our life's chief charm 

reposes ; 
For every sunny dream there gapes some black untimely 

tomb, 
And every answer' d wish is drown' d in deep oblivious 

gloom ; 
But while the other sweet flowers die, and fade, oh 

ne'ertheless 
Daily bloom these scentless roses of deep forgetf illness. 



THE ROSES OF FORGETFULNESS. 157 

Beacons of our young life's dawning, and wild glee of 

our noon, 
Gay lilac blossoms bathing in the pure light of the 

moon, 
Virgin lilies trembling — hiding for very maiden shame, 
Giving promises of summers that never, never came, 
O April flowers, with all your sweets, you are less true, 

confess, 
Than your sister plants the roses of deep f orgetf ulness. 

Winter's first icy blast has rack'd our aching hearts with 

pain, 
Gone all hope is with the summer, but will never come 

again ; 
And our hearts, instead of singing pceans in true love's 

praise, 
Moan the bitterness of life and the weariness of days ; 
All is dead silence till the voice of sorrow bids us press 
To our lips and brows the roses of deep f orgetfulness ! 

Well, we have had a merry fling, so let us not repine, 
And aitho' the dregs are bitter, right luscious was the 

wine ; 
Why for puny deeds like ours should we idly pine and 

fret? 
Can we recall one moment's wrong with half a life's 

regret ? 
So let us take what fate has sent, and gayly, gladly 

bless 
The sweet influence of the roses of deep f orgetf ulness ! 



158 AN AFTERNOON SONG. 

LIT. 
AN AFTERNOON SONG. 

(BAUDELAIRE.) 

Little witch, with witching lashes, 

Falling over witching eyes, 
Tho' your glances scarcely tell me 

Of an angel's chastest sighs — 

I adore thee, in my passion, 

Careless, thoughtless girl of mine, 

With the priest's wild mad devotion 
For his idol and his shrine. 

Scents from desert, and from forest 
Have embalm' d your wide-flung tresses, 

And your head has all the movements 
Of all secret, guessless guesses. 

From your flesh the sweet faint odor, 
Like some sacred incensed fume, 

Rises till you charm like midnight, 
Nymph of warmth and shady gloom ! 

All the strongest, wildest philtres 
Are not worth your idle graces, 

E'en dead corpses would revive them 
Underneath your wild embraces. 



A.N AFTEENO ON SONG. 159 

Your soft white hips are amorous 
Of your back and full, ripe breasts, 

Like two hills of snow, rose-frozen, 
With rose blossoms on their crests. 

E'en the cushions throb with pleasure, 

As your lazy form discloses 
All the soft, voluptuous beauty 

Of a thousand languid poses. 

Sometimes to appease the passion 

Of love's torments, love's delights, 
You will flood my lips with kisses, 

Tease my lips with pearly bites ; 

And then tear my soul out, darling. 

With a peal of mocking laughter, 
Till, repentant, soft eyes steep them 

In mine own a moment after. 



Underneath your satin slippers 
Have I thrown my love, my hate, 

Have I flung my joy, my manhood, 
Flung my genius and my fate ! 



Can you heal my soul, my darling, 
You all color, warmth, and light ? 

Can you, sweet, dispel the darkness 
Of my drear, Siberian night? 



160 CAMILLE. 

Lin. 

CAMILLE. 

(andre chenier.) 

Oh why should you reproach my easeful days ! 
Why goad me on to grasp at glory's bays ? 
What would you of me ? I am happy, still 
You'd snatch away my all, my love Camille, 
My peaceful leisure, and my flitting dreams — 
Have I, half slumbering by these shady streams, 
E'er thought, e'er dreamt, of glory's brilliant name \ 
If this be shame I glory in my shame — 
Why then recall me to I know not what 
Vain projects of my youth long since forgot? 
Why tell me that Achilles' absent post 
Betray' d his vessels to the Trojan host ; 
That, tho' Columbus loved the North the best, 
Loving her still he led us to the West ? 
Yet long ago, when burning youth was young, 
In many a woody glade my thoughts I sung ; 
Full of vast objects, drunk with warrior's songs, 
Breathing of bloody bays, and battling throngs, 
Covering myself with steel, with eyes afire, 
To combats I attuned my sounding lyre ; 
Mad with audacious thoughts of high embrize, 
I left the earth and flew towards the skies, 
Till nearing Cupid's torch, I lighted there — 
Idalia's by-paths were so passing fair — 



CAMILLE. 161 

There Venus told me all her softest strains, 
And rank'd me chief 'inong all who wore her chains. 
If, sometimes now, obedient to your will, 
Or lured by vagrant fancy, I would still 
The lofty deeds of "Plutarch's Men" rehearse 
In spirit-stirring, generous sounding verse ; 
My voice, accustomed to voluptuous charms, 
Eefuses, struggles, flies in wild alarms ; 
My hand tormented, tries in vain to clasp 
The labor 1 d beauties flitting from its grasp ; 
But if, soon wearied, my dull'd spirit flies 
Again to those poor nothings you despise, 
If I sing Camiile's charms, my loving song 
In glowing verse flows trippingly along ; 
Verses to chant her praise around me spring, 
In clustering crowds to heaven and earth they cling ; 
All things for her has verses, for they seem 
To sparkle in each wavelet on the stream ; 
They take the bird's sweet voice, and brilliant hue, 
They hide in flower-buds, rich with pearly hue ; 
Her breast has all the peaches 1 ri2)est bloom, 
Her mouth the rose's smile, and rare perfume ; 
The bee, tho' flitting from that flower to this, 
Bears no such honey as her balmy kiss. 
All nature brings a poem within my reach, 
Sweet as her breath, melodious as her speech ; 
Whate'er she does or says, a word, a look, 
Would fill the pages of a mighty book. 
11 



162 CAMILLE. 

And if from rne her glances steal a smile 

From her my songs a thousand smiles beguile ; 

The muslin kerchief, that would fain conceal, 

In iilmy folds, the charms it must reveal, 

Demands a song, a burning song of mine ; 

Sometimes, adorn 1 d with luxury divine, 

My glowing lyre will raise her to the sky 

And rob poor Juno of her majesty ; — 

Such is her beauty, mantling cheeks aglow, 

Locks black as jet, and bosom pure as snow ; 

If, cover 1 d with her long hair and sweet shame, 

She bares her veilless beauty to my flame, 

Then would I sing, in all a Menade's strength, 

Of Paphian combats, all an Iliad's length ; 

And if my projects, blushing for the theft 

From rare old Homer's lyre, have almost left 

His battling chords, they steal, devoid of shame, 

All that is penn'd to lovely Helen's fame ; 

Oh happy he who breathes in every line 

Seductive wishes, like these songs of mine ! 

Whose glowing muses guide him on his lyre, 

In every note he sings, to love's desire ! 

-Twas last night, when I lay at Camille's feet, 

I heard her soft lips lovingly repeat, 

In pride for me, and for herself in shame, 

A song, in which I sang my darling's fame. 

If these sweet lips had breathed in Virgil's days, 

He would have sang of naught but Camille's praise ; 

And saved poor Dido from her wild desire 

For ^Eneas' fickle love, and from the funeral pyre ! 



CAIN AND ABEL. 163 

LXV. 
CAIN AND ABEL. 

(BAUDELAIRE. ) 

Race of Abel, sleep, and eat, 
God Trill find thy pleasure sweet. 

Race of Cain, let hunger's pangs 
Gnaw thee with its fiercest fangs. 

Race of Abel, thy gifts rise 
Graceful offerings to the skies. 

Race of Cain, thy torments last 
Long as life and death hold fast. 

Race of Abel, warm thy mirth 
By thy patriarchal hearth. 

Race of Cain, within thy cave, 
Shivering, wish it were thy grave. 

Race of Abel, love and breed, 

God will make thine offspring speed. 

Race of Cain, crush down thy brood, 
Who will give thy children food ? 



164 A SAB MADRIGAL. 

Race of Abel, fill the land 
Numerous as the ocean's sand. 

Race of Cain, fade off and die, 
Quite annull' d by misery. 



LV. 
A SAD MADRIGAL. 

(BAUDELAIRE.) 

What matter if you be fair ? 

Be wise, and be sad, for tears 
Can lend a charm to your eyes ; 
As rain-clouds gladden the skies, 

As the future gleams with fears. 

I love you best when delight 

From your gloomy brow flies past, 
When your day is plunged in night, 
And your present vanish' d quite, 

In the dreary dreams of the past. 

I love you when your black eyes shed 

Water soft as blood, and warm 
When your loving moods are dead, 
When agony, anguish, dread, 
Outburst like a tropic storm. 



DEATH. 165 

I breathe, O pleasure divine, 

A hymn profound and deep, 
Every sobbing sigh of thine 
Makes me think your heart's ashine 

With the glistening pearls you weep. 



LVI. 
DEATH. 

(BAUDELAIRE.) 

I. 

The Lover's Death. 

We will have voluptuous couches, full of subtle, faint, 

perfume, 
We will have soft clasping cushions, deep and silent as 

the tomb ; 
Strange flowers on the window ledges, shutting out the 

azure skies, 
Tingeing all the sunlight's languor with a thousand 

crimson dyes. 

Using, slowly, as if grudging, their consuming, final 

heat. 
Our two hearts will meet together, as two mighty flames 

might meet, 



166 DEATH. 

And reflect their double splendor, and their double 
streams of light, 

In your soul and mine, my "darling, as on mirrors bur- 
nish 1 d blight. 

On an evening, rosy tinted, and with mystic blue half- 
dark, 

Our two hearts will throb together, and exchange their 
dying spark, 

Like a long-drawn sighing, sobbing, overladen with 
"farewells." 

Later on will come an angel, floating thro' the open 
door, 

Joyful in his task of mercy, mighty with death-conquer- 
ing spells, 

To revive the tarnish' d mirrors, and the shatter' d flames 
once more ! 



ii. 

The Pauper's Death. 

O Death, the great Consoler. 'Tis he who makes us 
live, 

He is the aim of life, there is no hope beside ; 
Elixir-like he rises in our poor brains to give 

Strength, and the will to march, until the eventide. 



DEATH. 167 

Death, the flashing Beacon, on which we madly look, 
Longingly, thro' the snow, and thro' the icy blast, 

Death the famous hostel, we read of in the Book, 

Where we may eat and drink, and seat ourselves at 
last. 

Death the Angel, holding in his mesmeric fingers 
Sleep, and the gift of dreams, where joy and beauty 

lingers, 
A warm bed for the weary — a cold tomb for the wise ; 
Death the glory of God — Garner of coin untold, 
Home to the homeless wretch — the pauper's purse of 

gold, 
Death the wond'rous portal, unfolding wond'rous 

skies ! 



m. 
The End of the Day. 

Life is writhing 'neath the gleams 
Of the waning, flickering light, 

Howling forth incestuous screams, 
Until soft voluptuous night 

Clasp the earth and hold it fast. 

Art thou hungry, night will fill thee ; 

Art thou weary, night will still thee. 
And the poet says ' ' at last ! " 

/ 



168 TO JESSY. 

" Body with thy aching bones, 
Spirit weary with thy groans, 
I will comfort thee outright, 

' * I will lay me on my back, 
I will wrap me in the black 
Curtains of refreshing night ! 



Lvn. 
TO JESSY. 

(th. gautier.) 

You are so fair, that from your eyes 

A single passing gleam — 
A mocking look of coy surprise, 
Would raise a poet to the skies 
In some romantic dream. 

With simple dainty wiles that speak 

A spirit sweetly maiden, 
And little dimpled smiles that seek 
A haven on your lips and cheek 
With rosy blushes laden ; 



SOLITUDE. 169 

A tiny foot, a hand snow-white, 

With slender tapering fingers ; 
Curls black and "balmy as the night, 
A breath like haytime's fresh delight, 

A voice where music lingers ; — 

You have all earthly charms, again 

I swear 't by all above you, 
And yet your mind, dear, is so vain; 
Your little pate so void of brain, 

One would not dare to love you. 



Lvm. 

SOLITUDE. 

(th. gautier.) 

In a kiss the river tells 

To the banks its fears ; 
To console the lorn blue-bells 

Rosy dawn has tears ; 
Winds of evening breathe their strains 

To the cypress glades ; 
And the turtle coos his pains 

To the gloomy shades. 



170 SULTAN MAHMO UD. 

On the waves where all reposes 

Till e'en sorrows fail, 
The pale languid moon discloses 

Why she is so pale. 
Saint Sophia, thy white dome 

Speaks to deep blue skies, 
And the blue sky dreams of home 

Far from our weak eyes. 

Tomb or tree, or rock or rill, 

Rose or turtle-dove, 
All below has somethiug still 

To hear — to breathe of love ; 
But I am alone — alone, 

Not a voice replies, 
Nothing but the sweeping moan 

Of the dark gulfs sighs ! 



LIX. 
SULTAN MAHMOUD. 

(th. gautier.) 

In my harem, like a bouquet 

Of exotic flowers 
Down its golden vase o'erflowing 

In scent-laden showers, 



SULTAN MAHMOUD. 171 

In my harem group together 

All the vaguest fancies 
Of an opium eater's languid, 

Wearied-out romances. 

These soulless forms, these broken lives, 
Can please one in their dreary fashion, 

Alas ! six hundred girls and wives, 

And ne'er a one for love's deep passion ! 

The young doe and the antelope, 

All from every clime — 
Europe, Africa, and Asia, 

Yield me of their prime ; 
Orange cheeks, and cheeks of roses, 

Eyes of black and blue, 
All that's strangest, all that's charming, 

Seems my regal due. 

These soulless forms, these broken lives, 
Can please me in their dreary fashion, 

Alas ! six hundred girls and wives, 

And ne'er a one for love's deep passion ! 

Neither Grecian virgin chisell'd, 

As of stone, yet real ; 
Nor the listless negress dreaming 

Of her black ideal ; 



172 SERENADE. 

Nor the French girl, half triumphant 

In her mocking part ; 
Nor the plaintive English damsel 

Ever won my heart. 

These soulless forms, these broken lives, 
Can please me in their dreary fashion, 

Alas ! six hundred girls and wives, 

And ne'er a one for love's deep passion ! 



LX. 
SERENADE. 

(th. gautier.) 

Sweet, as you bend from the window-sill 
'Tis but a little to clasp your charms, 

How little, and yet, do all I will, 

I cannot attain your outstretch' d arms. 

Tho' your duenna has door ajar 

Throw me a collar, a ribbon of gold, 

Or from the strings of your sweet guitar 
Weave me a ladder — or, darling, hold — 

Take out your flowers, let down your hair, 
Hang over me, dear, your long black tresses, 

A torrent of jet whose soft waves dare 
To clasp your feet in their wild caresses. 



TO THE BUTTERFLIES. 173 

O ladder sublime ! divinely quaint ! 

Tis but a toueh, and Til lightly fly, 
'Mid scented odor, and perfume faint, 

And tho' not an angel reach the sky ! 



LXL 

TO THE BUTTERFLIES. 

(th. gautier.) 

gay butterflies, color of snow, 
Flitting merrily over the hollow, 

If you lend me your wings I will go 
By the blue airy pathway you follow. 

Sweet, where all joys and all beauties dwell, 
If the gay butterflies would but try me, 

Cannot your wonderful deep eyes tell 
As to whither away I would hie me ; 

"Without taking one kiss from the rose, 
Over valleys and forests that lie there, 

1 would go to your lips that half close, 

O flower of my soul ! and would die there ! 



174 THE SPECTRE OF THE ROSE, 



lxh. 
THE SPECTRE OF THE ROSE. 

(th. gautier.) 

Oh raise your deep-fringed lids that close 

To wrap you in some sweet dream's thrall, 
I am the spectre of the rose 

You wore but last night at the ball ; 
You pluck' d me warm, but still empeaiTd 

With Eve's soft tear-drops, silvery white, 
And 'mid the dazzling, brilliant world 

You wore me proudly all the night. 

O you, thro' whose light wish I died, 

I will arouse me from the dead, 
And all night long will flit and glide 

About your curtains and your bed; 
Still, tiio' I haunt your dainty room, 

For me let not a mass be given, 
My soul is in this faint perfume, 

And I have reached the roses' heaven. 

Yet, ere I drew my dying breath, 

All envied me a lot so brave, 
For tho' I felt the pangs of death, 

I had your bosom for a grave ; 



SPRINGTIME AND AUTUMN. 175 

And on the marble, as I lay, 

A bard wrote with a loving kiss — 
1 ' Here lies a rose, and monarchs may 

Be jealous of an end like this." 



Lxm. 
SPRINGTIME AND AUTUMN. 

(beranger.) 

Two seasons rule this world of ours, 

To those who lead a life like mine ; 
We owe to springtime all the flowers, 

To autumn every cheering wine. 
The days grow long, our hearts beat high, 

The days grow short, the ripe grapes swell. 
In springtime, O Bacchus, good-bye ! 

In autumn, O Cupid, farewell ! 

'Twere doubtless better if one could 

Clasp both joys with a single clutch ; 
But for my health I fear I should 

Drink far too hard, and love too much ; 
So Wisdom, whispering with a sigh, 

Bids me devise a bounded spell ; 
In springtime, O Bacchus, good-bye ! 

In autumn, O Cupid, farewell ! 



176 AUTUMN AND SPRINGTIME. 

It was in May I saw Rosette, 

And with a wond'rous patience bore 
Each fancy of the sly coquette 

Until her six months- reign was o'er ; 
For, fearing lest her bard should die, 

October came before I fell ; 
In springtime, O Bacchus, good-bye ! 

In autumn, O Cupid, farewell ! 

I take, I leave, retake Adele 

Without a thought of care or pain ; 
Still one day, sorrowful and pale, 

She vow'd she soon would come again ; 
But then, I humm'd as she passed nigh 

The year must have its bounded spell : 
In springtime, O Bacchus, good-bye ! 

In autumn, O Cupid, farewell ! 

But ah ! a lovely girl at last 

Has changed my pleasure at her will ; 
Like Cupid, she can hold me fast ; 

Like Bacchus, she can keep me still ; 
And, darling, if she chose to try 

Pd let her break my rule and spell ; 
In spring, 'twill be, Bacchus, good-bye ! 

In autumn, O Bacchus, farewell ! 



EO W FAIR SHE IS. 177 



LXIV. 
HOW FAIR SHE IS. 

(beranger.) 

Ye gods ! she is so fair, so sweet, 

I've cast my life beneath her feet ; 

In her deep, melancholy eyes 

All love's raptured languor lies ; 

Gentle zephyrs, blowing round her, 

With their choicest sweets have crown' d her ; 

She's fair as morning's rosy light, 

Whilst I am gloomy as the night. 

Ye gods ! she is so fair, so sweet, 
I've cast my life beneath her feet ; 
The tinge upon her golden hair 
Gleams as tho' sunset loiter' d there ; 
Clever she is in all but this, 
She scarcely knows how fair she is ; 
She's fair as morning's rosy light, 
Whilst I am gloomy as the night. 

Ye gods ! she is so fair, so sweet, 
I've cast my life beneath her feet ; 
Tho' love had been my fondest dream, 
And woman's charms my favorite theme, 
12 



178 THE OLD FLAG. 

Before she brighten' d up my heart 
Love fled away, or kept apart ; 
She's fair as morning's rosy light, 
Whilst I am gloomy as the night. 

Ye gods ! she is so fair, so sweet, 
Tve cast my life beneath her feet — 
A life of barely thirty years, 
And yet how old with doubts and fears, 
Until with love, and hope, and truth, 
She seem'd to bring me back my youth ; 
For she was fair as morning's light, 
Whilst I was gloomy as the night. 



LXV. 
THE OLD FLAG. 

(beranger.) 

Trusty comrades, old and hoary, 
You are round me, not in vain, 

Wine will bring us back our story, 
Memory will fire each brain ; 

Proud of all our fame and glory, 
See our banner once again ! 

Up, my comrades, for we must 

Shake away its mouldering dust ! 



THE OLD FLAG. 179 

It is hidden with me here, 

Where I lie half-starv'd and batter'd, 
I, who, with no thought of fear, 

Bore it till its silk was tatter'd — 
Over Europe far and near, — 

Till I too was worn and shatter' d. 
Up, my comrades, for we must 
Shake away its mouldering dust ! 

This old flag has paid to France 

All the blood that it has cost it ; 
Children trifled with its lance 

Till e'en liberty was lost it ; 
Bravely 'twill again advance 

When the tyrant once has cross' d it ; 
Up, my comrades, for we must 
Shake away its mouldering dust ! 

Wearied out with fame and sorrow, 

On some distant battle-field, 
Lies its eagle — we must borrow 

France's Cock to deck our shield ; 
He shall lead us forth to-morrow, 

Till our country's woes are heal'd. 
Up, my comrades, for we must 
Shake away its mouldering dust ! 



180 THE BACCHANTE. 

Tired -with all the fields it won us 
It brought liberty and peace ; 

Till, old soldiers, we could sun us 
In our vineyards' rich increase ; 

Think: of all the flag has done us, 
Think, and bid our tyrants cease ! 

Up, my comrades, for we must 

Shake away its mouldering dust ! 

There above my arms 'tis lying, 
Spread it out a moment here, 

Let me use thy folds for drying 
An old soldier's burning tear ; 

When a warrior's eyes are crying 
Heaven perforce shall stoop to hear ; 

Comrades, up, for heaven must 

Let us shake away its dust ! 



LXVL 
THE BACCHANTE. 

(beranger.) 

Half mad with love, and half with wine, 
Your Delia is a prude no more ; 

But longs for follies as divine 
As ever Venus tried of yore — 



THE BACCHANTE. 181 

Away with all these vain pretences, 

And pledge me in each rosy beaker ! 

How can I dare to own me weaker 
If still you basely keep your senses ? 

My veins seein'd fuTd with bmning lead, 

Can you^not guess it from my eyes ? 
While scatter 1 d on your 'broider'd bed 

Each sweet flower from my garland lies — 
Come, darling, kiss my heaving breast, 

Pour out the red wine fast and faster ? 

Dash down the cup — let each disaster 
Merrily follow on the rest ? 

Oh turn again, love, why delay you 
Between your kisses and my charms ? 

Break, break these knots, there's naught to stay you 
Now modesty has no alarms ! 

Fondly caress each naked treasure ! 

God ! my very soul's on fire, 
Sweet, as I writhe with mad desire 

Can you not yield me more of pleasure ? 

But, lying breathless in my arms, 

Of kisses and of love bereft, 
If 'tis the wine your force disarms 

1 prithee leave me all that's left ! 



182 THE GRAY-HAIR D DAME. 

These burning passions of my soul 

Tho' rais'd with love, were fired with wine, 
And, if still unappeased by thine, 

Naught, naught will quench them but the bowl ! 



Lxvn. 
THE GRAY-HAIR'D DAME. 

(beranger.) 

O Mistress mine ! you must grow old, 

And I must leave you here alone ; 
Relentless time has doubly told 

The happy days I thought my own ; 
Survive me, and old age, tho' dire, 

Will prove my lessons not in vain ; 
A gray-hair 1 d dame, beside your fire, 

Repeat your lover's songs again. 

When youthful eyes will fondly gaze 

Upon your time-worn, wrinkled brow, 
To trace the charms of other days, 

And wonder whom you mourn for now, 
Oh paint my joy, my fond desire, 

My eager love, my jealous pain ; 
A gray -hair d dame, beside your fire, 

Repeat your lover\s songs again. 



THE GRAY-HAIR D DAME. 183 

And they will ask if I loved you, 

And you will say, " He loved me ever," 
Or, " Did he prove unkind, untrue ? " 

And you will proudly answer " Never." — 
tell them that my loving lyre 

Was always constant in its strain ; 
A gray-hair 1 d dame, beside your fire, 

Repeat your lover's songs again. 

O you ! who wept at France's story, 

Sing the new race the burning songs 
In which I breathed of hope and glory, 

To soothe her for her bitter wrongs ; 
Tell them the banners of their sire 

Swept twenty harvests off the plain ; 
A gray-hair d dame, beside your fire, 

Repeat your lover's songs again. 

And, darling, if my poor renown 

Can wile away a sigh, a tear, 
And if with Christmas leaves you crown 

My portrait for the new-born year, 
Gaze upwards for a moment higher, 

There nothing more can part us twain ; 
A gray-hair' d dame, beside your fire, 

Repeat your lover's songs again. 



184 OLD AGE. 

Lxvm. 

OLD AGE. 

(beranger.) 

Time is pressing on us now, 
Sowing wrinkles on each brow ; 
If we must grow old in sooth, 
Keep we all we can of youth ; 
But each step we take seems bringing 
Flowers in wild profusion springing, 
More than we can hope to hold ; 
Friends, this is not growing old. 

Sparkling juice and merry song 
Gayly chase the hours along ; 
Guests around our table may 
Whisper that our locks are gray, 
What care we if rosy wine 
Tells us of a youth divine, 
If our hearts are never cold ; 
Friends, this is not growing old. 

Does a laughing, roguish eye, 
Snare us, as in days gone by, 
Hinting, in a saucy fashion, 
Age is scarcely meant for passion — 
Less we love the less we spend, 
Of a mistress make a friend, 
Careless if she smile or scold ; 
Friends, this is not growing old. 



ROUNDELAY. 185 

If in spite of merry cheer 
Age should try to catch us here, 
Let us boldly, bravely meet him, 
All together we must greet him ; 
So by our fireside, whenever 
Old age comes, we'll all together 
Jeer him back into the cold ; 
Friends, this is not growing old. 



LXIX. 
ROUNDELAY. 

(SAINTE-BEUVE.) 

O sweet autumn breezes, blow cool for my lover ! 
O vast forest, open your close- woven cover ! 
Beneath the tall trees where all sorrow is sleeping, 
She slumbers o'erburden'd with grieving and weeping. 
Your depths are a haven for woes of the sweetest ; 
Your boughs are a shelter for sorrows the fleetest ; 
Diana herself, and her troop of chaste maids, 
Found exile a pleasure beneath your green shades ; 
With the torchlit night, and the roseate morn, 
And the hurrying stag, and the echoing horn, 
Oh, shelter her tenderly, wide-spreading trees 
Waft, waft her a sigh of voluptuous ease, 
O sweet autumn breeze ! 



186 "OH TAKE AWAY." 

Yet the soul of my life breathes never a sigh, 
But mounts her proud steed with a gay ringing cry ; 
O'er rocks and o'er deserts, as fleet as the wind, 
Till I and the forest fade out of her mind ; 
But if the fresh odor of turf and of trees 

Make an amazon queen, my sweetest, of thee, 
Roar out upon her and blow softly on me, • 
O sweet autumn breeze ! 



LXX. 

"OH TAKE AWAY." 

(SAINTE-BEUVE.) 

Oh take away these graces half divine, 

Take all that moves and binds this heart of mine, 

Take all my foes, kind heaven, take them all ; — 
These trysts, at once my joys and my alarms, 
These thousand wiles of thousand girlish charms, 

That kill me with the sweetness of their thrall ! 



FIRST LOVE. 187 

LXXI. 
FIRST LOVE. 

(SAINTE-BEUVE.) 

Spring, what would you have of me ? why, why this 
happy smile, 
These perfume-laden flowers, these blossoms in your 
hair? 
Why does the April sun caress your beauties, while 
The April zephyrs breathe in many a passionate air ? 

O Spring, fair as you are, you do but chill my youth ; 
You speak to my sad heart of dreams long since gone 

by; 

And with your laughing promise and your fair-seeming 
truth 
Bring for my happy days a weary long-drawn sigh. 

One single being fill'd the whole wide world for me ; 

I drew my dreams, my life, my future from her eyes ; 
Her voice, how pure and calm in its low harmony, 

Told me of brighter days to dawn 'neath brighter 
skies. 

Ah ! how I loved her ! loved in silence deep as death, 
And endless as the grave, yet ever loved the same ; 

How could I soil her lips with my mad, burning breath, 
Or touch her virgin brow all mantled with sweet 
shame. 



188 FIRST LOVE. ' 

And yet sometimes I hoped, for kind as she was fair, 
She many a time consoled me for my dreary fate ; 

One day she blush' d with joy to find me standing there, 
And more than once she chided when I was some- 
what late. 

And many a time amid her choice of flower or dress 
She sought my madden' d glance with some sweet art- 
less word, 

She seem'd to pride herself on her rich loveliness, 

And chose the flower or robe that I too had preferr'd. 

Or, if a -painter's skill, an artist's cunning brush 

Upon an ivory surface her charms had chanced to 
trace ; 
Her youth's swest flower, her cheeks' rich, rosy blush, 
And liquid, soft deep eyes that lighten' d all her 
face ; 

Ah, then she loved to point, with merry girlish glee, 
Upon her imaged self, and keep me by her side ; 

Half doubtful of her charms, half confident in me, 
And listen to the praises that my poor heart replied. 

One night I found her there, with cheeks all pale and 
cold, 
And dreamy eyes half-closed, whilst drooping lashes 
sought 
To hide the bursting tears in their transparent fold, 
Whilst her sad dreary smile betray' d a dreary thought. 



FIRST LOVE. 189 

And soon she sang — it was a song of long farewell, 
A plaintive, deep adieu, with grief o'erburdened, 

And eacli note seem'd to weep melodious tears that fell 
On my poor aching heart, till love itself was dead. 

The morrow and another received her plighted vows ; 
Thy mother's wish, my darling, was law of life to 
thee ; 

holy, tender daughter, resign' d and faithful spouse, " 
Be happy, dear, for him — be happy without me ! 

But I can still recall thy witching loveliness ; 

Oh ! let the mystic thrill of these sweet memories 
Descend sometimes amidst my hours of fierce distress, 

Like a pure ray of light — an angel from the skies ! 

1 can invoke thee, Sweet, in days of grief and pain, 

Just as a sisters voice might call a long lost brother ; 
I still can feel thy presence, thy soothing aid again, 
As some poor orphan feels the presence of his mother. 



190 I2ENY01 TO FANNY. 



Lxxn. 

L'ENVOI TO FANNY. 

(after sainte-beuve. ) 

Oh let me ! when my mind is wholly 

A-weariecT of the city's roar, 
When hope and fear and melancholy 

Bid my poor jaded heart outpour, — 

Oh let me breathe in undertone 

A song from some sweet Gallic singer — 
Glean where a mighty mind has sown, 
Till in these poor songs of my own 

Some echoes of his sweetness linger ; 

Not word by word, and line by line, 
In foolish hope to emulate him ; 

But thoughts of his, and thoughts of mine, ■ 
No otherwise could I translate him. 

Still, planting in this soil of ours 
AYhat I would fondly tend and cherish, 

I tremble lest the fragile flowers 

Should wither in my touch, and perish ; 



L ENVOI TO FANNY. 191 

Yet is the. rich, abundant tree 

So filTd with beauty, and so living, 

'Twill kindly prove, perchance, to me 
Not altogether unforgiving. 

Fain for my theft I would atone, 
By adding to the sweets I'm rifling. 

All I can give them of my own — 
My all, and yet, ah me, how trifling ! 

Oil, let me gaze on your deep eyes, 

And sun my soul, sweet, in your glances, 

Till all my poets 1 heroines rise 

And deck you with then* sweet romances. 

And, since this woven chain of ours 
Will scarcely serve to reach to fame, 

I'll hang at least these stolen flowers 
Around your beauty like a frame. 

Perchance, my darling, as you say, 

We shall grow wise as we grow older — 

As yet we've made but little way, 

As yet our hearts are scarcely colder — 

Still we may change, and if we do 

This little book will somewhat bind us, 

I'll take it up, and think of you,' 
And all the joy that lies behind us ! 



192 L'ENVOI TO FANNY. 

And when you see this dusty cover, 

You'll think, with half a sigh I know it, 

" He was as fond and true a lover, 
As he was little of a poet." 



Thm END. 





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